


Sobering

by eluna



Series: Vanishing 'Verse [4]
Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, POV Multiple, Post-Canon, Post-Mockingjay, Tag Wranglers: Thanks for being heroes and wrangling all my rels the past ~week!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24034930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eluna/pseuds/eluna
Summary: “You’re an integral part of this family, Haymitch,” says Peeta, and he’s surprised to find that his voice is gurgly, like he’s all worked up with emotion.“And if you’re going to stay alive for this family,” Katniss adds, “you’re going to have to stop drinking.”Haymitch snorts. “I’m a grown-ass man, sweetheart; you can’t—”“You’re right: I can’t tell you what to do. I can’t make you want to do anything you don’t want to do,” says Katniss levelly. “So I guess you’re just going to have to choose whether you want to see Briar graduate, or watch as Rosy opens her own restaurant, or help teach your baby niece Maisie to read.”(Or: When Haymitch nearly dies of alcohol poisoning, he agrees to get sober, leading to a reunion of the Mellark family for the first time in two years.)
Relationships: Haymitch Abernathy & Katniss Everdeen & Katniss and Peeta's Child(ren) & Peeta Mellark, Haymitch Abernathy & Katniss Everdeen & Peeta Mellark, Haymitch Abernathy & Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark's Child(ren), Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark's Child(ren) & Peeta Mellark, Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark
Series: Vanishing 'Verse [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1725196
Comments: 57
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> No idea where I'm going with this, except the basic plot (Haymitch gets sober) and exploring the strained relationship between Peeta and his son. Might stay all Peeta's POV, might jump around - I'm not sure yet. Suggestions welcome!

Peeta is at home on a Monday night when he and Katniss get the call from Rosy. “You need to get next door now,” says Rosy, sounding breathless and strained.

“To Haymitch’s?”

“He’s unconscious, and he won’t wake up. I called the healer already, and she’s on her way, but—well—I thought you might want to be here. Or say goodbye.”

Peeta runs a hand down his face. “Shit. We’ll be right over.”

He hangs up the phone and pokes his head into the bedroom, where Katniss is sprawled out on the bed with her books of plants and people. “It’s Haymitch,” he says. “It’s bad.”

It’s not the first time this has happened. Haymitch has given himself alcohol poisoning, oh, at least twice that Peeta can remember? But he’s in his eighties now, and, well, Peeta doesn’t blame Rosy for thinking that this might be it. Honestly, Peeta’s a little shocked that Haymitch has survived this long, between the drinking and—more drinking.

Stuffing themselves into their shoes, Peeta and Katniss hurry next door; Rosy comes to the door a long minute after they ring the doorbell. “He’s got a pulse still. He’s still breathing. But it’s weak.”

When Peeta lowers his ear to Haymitch’s mouth, the puffs of breath that hit him are faint and irregular. He listens to his heart next: there’s only one beat every seven seconds or so.

“Have you called Briar yet? He’ll want to know about this. He and Haymitch…”

“I didn’t want to worry him until we know whether he’s going to be okay,” Rosy admits.

“We should probably worry him,” says Peeta. “He’d want to know.”

Briar has been away at college for the last two years in District 1, studying alternative energy sources. He’d worked in the mines during his gap year and vowed to personally make sure that no citizen of District 12 should ever have to become a miner ever again. Every few weeks, he calls Katniss up and tells her all about space-based solar energy and algae power and nuclear waste. Peeta does not receive the same treatment.

“I’ll call his cell,” says Katniss, and she crosses to the kitchen, where Haymitch keeps his phone.

It’s a long twenty minutes until Mrs. Thornesmith gets there. She intubates Haymitch and puts him on a portable ventilator, then fits him with an intravenous drip containing vitamins and glucose—to stop dehydration and increase blood sugar, she says. Peeta is surprised when she fits a catheter to his bladder, but she says the likelihood that otherwise he’ll wet himself is high, so he shrugs and accepts it.

“All we can really do now is wait until either the alcohol leaves his system or—frankly—until it doesn’t,” says Mrs. Thornesmith, mopping sweat off her brow with the sleeve of her shirt. “I’ll stay here to monitor him, but I can leave the room for a while, if you’d like some privacy.”

Katniss thanks her and brings her into the kitchen for a hot mug of tea, while Peeta and Rosy crouch down next to the couch where Haymitch is lying. Rosy seems to be at a loss for words, watching the IV steadily drip fluid into his veins through the needle in his elbow. “You stubborn old man,” Peeta says finally. “It was one thing when everyone you loved was dead, but Rosy and Briar need you. Katniss needs you. Hell, _I_ need you. I _need_ you, Haymitch.”

At the four-hour mark, Katniss raids Haymitch’s fridge for ingredients to make stew for the Mellarks and Mrs. Thornesmith, who insists that she doesn’t mind staying until they know what’s going to happen to Haymitch. Rosy has been embellishing the same drawing of Haymitch’s hooked-up and intubated body for almost an hour now. Peeta just seizes Haymitch’s hand in a death grip and holds on.

The phone rings, and none of them are sure whether it would be bad manners or not to grab it, but when the ringing stops and then starts again, Peeta says, “I’ll get it.” He trudges into the kitchen, tucks the phone under his ear, and says, “Er… Abernathy residence.”

“Oh. Hi, Dad.”

Peeta hasn’t seen or spoken to Briar since before he started college: unlike the primary schools in District 12, universities go year-round. “Briar. Mom is busy cooking, but I can get Rosy, if you’d rather—?”

“No, it’s okay, that’s… fine.” Briar gives a heavy sigh. “I’m guessing Mom would have called if there were an update, but I just—wanted to check in, I guess.”

“There’s been no change. Mrs. Thornesmith set him up with an IV and a ventilator, but otherwise, he’s… the same.”

“Okay.” Another big pause. The reception is surprisingly good for a cell phone—or is that normal? Everyone has them in District 1, but even home phones are considered a luxury in District 12, so Peeta wouldn’t exactly know. “I talked to the Dean of Students’ office in the meantime, and they said that they can set me up with virtual lectures, but I’d need to buy a laptop to be able to submit my assignments, and I don’t know whether we even _have_ Internet service in District 12.”

“What?”

“If I have to come home, of course,” says Briar. “To be with Uncle Haymitch, if he recovers. I can afford to miss a few days of class for the funeral if he—if he doesn’t, but if he does, I wanted to—”

“Briar, that’s sweet—it is—but Haymitch would want you to focus on your education. We can keep an eye on him here.”

“So that he can keep trying to drink himself to death? He needs more than ‘an eye.’ He needs a… roommate, probably.”

“We don’t have to decide anything right now. Maybe your mother and I can take him in, or Rosy can? You don’t need to drop out just so you can—”

“I don’t have to _drop out_ ; I just wanted…”

“Briar, the second Haymitch is alone again, he’s going to resume drinking. If you come back here to watch him, you’re coming back here for the rest of his life.”

“I—”

“Mom. Dad,” says Rosy sharply.

“I have to go. Call you back,” says Peeta, and he hangs up the phone.

Back in the living room, Haymitch is stirring and yanking at the tube protruding from his mouth. “Just relax. I’ll take this out,” says Mrs. Thornesmith soothingly.

Haymitch rests his hands, but his eyes keep darting around frantically until she unhooks the ventilator and coaxes out the tubing. “Didn’t realize I’d have a full welcoming committee waiting for me the next time I woke up,” he rasps.

“Your niece found you unconscious and barely breathing,” says Mrs. Thornesmith, not gently but not harshly, either. “Your heart was barely beating. I had to—”

“What fresh hell is this?” Haymitch interrupts. He’s lifted the blanket off of himself and noticed the catheter.

After she removes it—and the IV—Mrs. Thornesmith turns to Peeta and Katniss and says, “Watch him for the next day or two, and call me if there are any complications.”

“We should talk,” Peeta says in an undertone to Katniss after they hear the click of the door, but Haymitch calls out, “If you’re going to make decisions on my behalf, I’d appreciate it if you could _so_ kindly include me in that conversation.”

So they all take seats around Haymitch’s living room. Haymitch wants to get up and walk—wherever, and Rosy thinks he should stay where he is, but she compromises by letting him at least sit up in place and put his feet on the ground. Rosy plops down next to him, and Peeta grabs an armchair.

“Briar would want to be involved in this,” says Katniss. “I’ll put him on speaker.”

There’s a slight commotion in the kitchen—Katniss checks on the stew while she’s filling Briar in—and then she comes back, sits on a chair next to Peeta’s, and presses a button on the receiver. “We’re all here, honey,” she tells Briar.

“Haymitch?”

“Yeah.”

“You dumb fuck,” says Briar. He sounds properly angry, which is _rare_ for Briar. “You dumb-ass, _selfish_ fucker.”

“Tell me how you really feel,” Haymitch drawls.

“You think this is funny? This is your _life_! And you may not give a damn about it, but you have people who love you who do! _We_ do!”

“Kiddo,” says Haymitch, “I’m over eighty years of age. I’m old, and I’m tired, and I’m in pain. Why can’t you people just let me go, huh? Why’ve you got to make everything about _you_?”

“You fucking—”

Rosy swiftly interrupts, “I think what Briar is trying to say is—Haymitch, do you _really_ want to die? _Really_? Because that’s what almost happened here today.”

“And you can take your sarcasm and shove it,” adds Briar hotly.

“Oh, you children,” says Haymitch, like they’re so naive, like he knows something that they don’t, and Peeta’s about to jump to their defense when Haymitch continues, “You know, I would have _welcomed_ death for a long time. My girlfriend was dead. My brother. My mother. I had no one but my abusive fuck of a father, and when he went early, I wasn’t the least bit sorry.”

You could hear a pin drop in that house. Peeta uncrosses his legs and settles his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands. “You don’t know what it’s like, having to mentor two kids _every_ year that you know are going to go on to just—” Haymitch imitates slitting his own throat and clicks his tongue. “Back then, I would have been thrilled to die. Thrilled. And then I met these two lovebirds, and I… I allow myself to entertain the possibility that one of them might not get slaughtered. And then they _both_ survived. And then I had somebody—two somebodies—who knew what it was like to survive at the mercy of the Capitol. And everything was different now.”

There’s a pause, and then Haymitch grins wryly and says, “This is the part where I take a swig of liquor.” But no one laughs.

“In District 13, there was no drinking,” he adds. “Detoxing—it was as bad as all those deaths after I won my Games, and I don’t say that lightly. And after—well. The wounds were old, at that point, and I had this idiot—” he indicates Katniss “—to look after, and eventually her little boyfriend, too,” he says, nodding at Peeta. “Would I have been happy to die, knowing that I had two charges who, like it or not, thought they needed me? Maybe not. But just because I didn’t want to drink myself to death didn’t mean I wanted much more than to—what’s the expression? ‘Drown myself in my sorrows?’ ‘Numb the pain?’ So when I came back to District 12, and there was alcohol for sale again, I took it. Of course I took it. And everything went blessedly hazy again.

“Katniss—Peeta—you two are like a daughter and son to me, and your kids are like my grandkids. Niece and nephew. Whatever. It has been my greatest honor to watch the four of you grow up and to be included as a part of that growth. But come _on_. I’m an old drunk, and none of you _need_ me, not anymore. Katniss, you have always had your own mind, and you have come into your own—truly!—getting out from under Coin and caring for this one,” he says, pointing his thumb at Peeta. “Rosy, Briar—I think we all know how much you’ve both survived—” Peeta blushes and looks down, doesn’t dare catch Rosy’s eye “—and you’ve come out of it beautiful and whole. Rosy has two thoughtful and _intelligent_ daughters, and Briar is going to revolutionize power sources for all of Panem. If I waste away… who’s to say I haven’t already outlived my usefulness?”

Katniss clears her throat, and when Peeta looks over at her, he sees a tear spill down her cheek. “I still need you,” she says. “I do.”

“I do, too,” says Briar, his voice crackling over the phone.

“What do you expect me to tell my daughters who adore their Uncle Haymitch if they lose you?” Rosy asks.

“You’re an integral part of this family, Haymitch,” says Peeta, and he’s surprised to find that his voice is gurgly, like he’s all worked up with emotion.

“And if you’re going to stay alive for this family,” Katniss adds, “you’re going to have to stop drinking.”

Haymitch snorts. “I’m a grown-ass man, sweetheart; you can’t—”

“You’re right: I can’t tell you what to do. I can’t make you want to do anything you don’t want to do,” says Katniss levelly. “So I guess you’re just going to have to choose whether you want to see Briar graduate, or watch as Rosy opens her own restaurant, or help teach your baby niece Maisie to read.”

Haymitch shakes his head and positively pouts at her. “Well, now, _that’s_ not fair. That’s just…” But Katniss just keeps looking at him intently, and Haymitch crosses his arms and flops back against the couch cushions. “So who’s going to be babysitting me, huh?”

“You can stay with me,” says Rosy. “I’ll have Ash bring Daphne and Maisie to me from now on instead of going to see them at their place. I’ve been pretty lonely living alone since Briar left for college; it’ll be nice to have some company again.”

Peeta looks at her sharply—Briar’s been gone for two years now, and Rosy never said she was lonely. He thinks about Rosy cooking and drawing alone in her house, knowing that her girls are growing up behind her eyes at Ash’s place instead of hers—all because Rosy saw herself starting to mistreat, no, _abuse_ Daphne the way Peeta abused her; all because she wants to protect Daphne and Maisie from herself—and for the millionth time, Peeta feels absolutely sick with himself.

He’s going to have to spend the rest of his life trying to make this up to Rosy and Briar, he knows, and he’s been exhausted from the guilt for years already.

“Katniss and I will come keep you company, too,” he says to Haymitch. “I can do my baking and my painting at Rosy’s just as easily as I can do it at home.”

“I’ll take the train out tomorrow,” says Briar abruptly, and everybody looks at the phone.

“Briar—” Peeta starts to say.

“I’m not going to drop out or take a bunch of time off or anything. I swear. But I can afford to miss a few days of classes, and, well—I’m overdue for a visit anyway, aren’t I?”

“But—”

“Peeta,” says Katniss, and Peeta looks over at her. “It’s his uncle. Let him come. You can bill us for the train ride, Briar. I’m going to go check on the stew.”

“All right. I’d better go book that train and email my professors,” says Briar. “I’ll call in a few minutes, once I know when I’ll be arriving, so you can plan accordingly.”

“We’ll pick you up at the station,” Katniss calls over her shoulder as she retreats to the kitchen.

Rosy stands, too. “Dad, stay with Uncle Haymitch. I’m going to go find and dump all the alcohol in the house.”

“I won’t even be staying here!” Haymitch protests.

“Yeah, and what’s to stop you from sneaking back here in the middle of the night for a drink?” Rosy points out.

Peeta gets up and stretches and takes a seat again where Rosy had been sitting before, on the couch next to Haymitch. “Looks like it’s you and me,” Peeta says awkwardly when Haymitch makes no move to say anything.

Haymitch snorts. “Go paint a daffodil or something.”

“I could paint you, if you’d like. Or anything you want.” Haymitch rolls his eyes. “If you could have any painting to put in your new bedroom at Rosy’s house, what would it be of?”

He considers for a moment and then says, “Paint my Games.” Peeta just looks at him. “If I’m going to get sober, I’m going to have to face them sooner or later.”

It’s the most serious Peeta has heard Haymitch sound—ever. “I’ll put in a request for tapes of your Games tomorrow.”

When Rosy’s done combing through the house for alcohol—and she turns up _a lot_ of alcohol—she asks Peeta to go through it a second time, just to catch anything Rosy might have missed. She did a pretty good job, as it turns out, but Peeta still turns up three bottles of vodka and one of tequila.

The stew is ready, by then, and they sit around Haymitch’s dining room table and eat. Rosy makes small talk about the girls—Daphne is going back to school for the second time soon, and Maisie is (finally) done toilet training and loves to be read to.

Haymitch looks like the last of the alcohol has just about worn off, and Peeta would guess that he’s got maybe a few hours before the withdrawal kicks in in earnest. “We should probably set up a rotation for tonight,” he says as he’s helping Katniss wash dishes. “The first few days—at least—are going to be ugly.”

“I’ll take first watch,” Rosy says, and Peeta has a sudden, overpowering flashback to the Games. He staggers backward a little but quickly collects himself. Katniss shoots him a look, and he shakes his head.

“I’ll take second,” says Katniss. “I’ll meet you at your place around one A.M.”

“And I’ll take over at four,” says Peeta. “Katniss, we’d better go try and sleep while we can. Haymitch! Katniss and I are going to head home.”

“We can head to my house,” Rosy calls as Haymitch comes into the room. “I still have a second bed all made up from when Briar used to live with me.”

“Where’s Briar going to go when he gets home?” asks Katniss.

“The couch, until I can get more sheets,” says Rosy, amused.

Katniss hugs Haymitch goodbye, and then Peeta shakes his hand. Haymitch smiles, but it comes out like more of a grimace.

Katniss chains Peeta up like always, but it’s probably too early to sleep. Still, they have to at least try. “I’ll take these off when I get up to take over for Rosy,” she says gently, and then crawls into bed behind him and loops one arm around his waist, the other under his neck, like always.

“Briar’s not going to be happy about me coming to visit them and be around Haymitch,” Peeta murmurs.

She squeezes a little tighter around his middle for a second. “He’ll deal. It’s for Haymitch—Briar adores that man.”

But Peeta doesn’t think Katniss understands exactly the extent to which Briar resents Peeta for—everything that happened—his whole childhood. Peeta knows Katniss feels guilty for not stopping Peeta from hurting the kids until they were almost grown, and he doesn’t want to burden her with the knowledge that Briar once told Peeta he hated him and never wanted to see him again—that Briar demanded to know how Peeta, having been a scared kid once himself, could possibly turn around and abuse his own kids, whom he claimed to love.

Peeta already has to live with himself, and frankly, he doesn’t think it would be fair to Briar or Rosy for him to get any relief from confiding in Katniss. What would Katniss have to say, anyway? That Peeta shouldn’t feel so bad about what he did? When he already knows that, yes, he _should_ feel bad. He should feel as bad as he possibly can.

He wakes up a bit when Katniss’s alarm goes off, and he blearily feels her gently unlocking the cuffs and tucking his arms in front of him. “I love you,” whispers Katniss, and she kisses his forehead, and then she’s gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haymitch's POV!

By the time Peeta gets to Haymitch’s house, the withdrawal is in full force. Haymitch is sitting in the bathroom propped up against the wall opposite the toilet. His hands are shaking. “He last threw up about ten minutes ago,” he hears Katniss say after Peeta gives her a kiss hello. “I don’t think he’s slept at all tonight.”

“I can _hear_ you,” says Haymitch all in a rush. His breathing is heavy, and he wipes his clammy hands on his pants, then along his shiny forehead.

“Bye, Haymitch,” calls Katniss, and he hears her footsteps retreating down the stairs.

Peeta turns on the bathroom light (Haymitch winces) and comes and sits down next to Haymitch on the grimy floor. To Peeta’s credit, he doesn’t complain or make a face.

“When did the puking start?” Peeta asks softly.

“I don’t know. Sometime after Katniss got here.”

His stomach turns over, and he lunges for the toilet. Again. Peeta kind of awkwardly rubs Haymitch’s back through it, and it makes him wish he could stop throwing up so he could smarm something back at him, even though it actually feels kind of nice. He tries to concentrate on the rubbing sensation instead of the nausea, which doesn’t get even one bit better after Haymitch throws up, but it’s hard.

He feels like he’s going through the world’s worst hangover. Haymitch _thought_ he vividly remembered how hellish detoxing was in District 13, but this feels so much worse than he recalls. His head is splitting, and his whole body feels like it’s drenched in sweat, and his heart is thumping away like he’s been faced with an—arena, or something.

“I, um, I brought a book,” says Peeta. Haymitch looks over: the hand that’s not on Haymitch’s back is holding up a novel. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I just went for one I knew Briar would recommend. He used to read this one over and over when he was in high school.”

“You really think I want to _read_ a _book_ right now?”

“No, but I thought—I thought it might be nice just for you to hear my voice for a while. When I’m coming down from a night terror, it always comforts me to hear Katniss’s voice; it doesn’t really matter what she’s saying.”

In a distant kind of way, Haymitch can appreciate the thought—that Peeta is being sweet. He wishes he could have shown Rosy and Briar _this_ side of Peeta all those times Peeta shouted at them when they were growing up. Mostly, he just thinks Peeta’s effort is going to be pointless.

Peeta starts to read, and Haymitch tries to concentrate on the story, he does, but he just catches disjointed bits of dialogue and lines. _The red door swung open to reveal… almost lunchtime and he’d already seen four people sentenced to… “just give me the letter before I have to…!”_ His mind fills with fractured images and half-formed thoughts: envelopes filled with poison powders, footsteps clacking down a hallway, four blue corpses all in a row. Katniss and Briar and Rosy and Peeta, all lined up like ducks. But that can’t be right; Peeta’s right here, isn’t he? _Isn’t_ he?

Haymitch looks over to see Peeta, looking tired but alert, clearing his throat every few words as he continues to rasp out lines from the book. It doesn’t make _sense_. Didn’t Peeta die in that arena? Didn’t the Capitol kill him? Didn’t Peeta go down in the Revolution and take Katniss out with him?

Peeta onstage, joking with Caesar, telling the audience about the girl who came here with him. Peeta on the train, passing Haymitch in the hallway, clearly en route to Katniss’s room. Peeta in the arena, walking straight into the force field, and bouncing backward, landing dead on his back.

Dead and not dead. Real and not real. Schrödinger’s Peeta.

Out of the whole Mellark family, Peeta has always been the one Haymitch has been the least close to. Katniss hated Haymitch, but she knew that he chose her, in her first Games, and in her second, he made a pact _broke a pact_ to choose Peeta instead. He doesn’t think Katniss ever forgave him for it, but, well, trust is complicated. She can hate him—that’s fine—but he still chooses her, and she knows it.

Rosy ranted about Peeta to him and cooked him stews for dinner and slept soundly in his spare room. Briar visited three times a week, for most of his life, entirely of his own accord. Didn’t even need Peeta’s shouting to provoke him to come.

But Peeta—they got on better than Haymitch and Katniss did, sure, but they didn’t _understand_ each other like Haymitch and Katniss. There’s love there, but not a _bond_. Not closeness. Not intimacy.

Why would Peeta rub his back and read to him as he puked? _Why_?

Time blurs together into a haze of vomiting and waiting, vomiting and waiting. One second, he’s listening to Peeta’s soft, assured voice, taking in snippets of phrases, muddying up the images in his mind with new words—or are the images in front of him? They can’t be, because the next second, the toilet is what’s in front of him, and he’s chucking up all over it. Somebody keeps flushing the damn thing. Peeta. Why?

Peeta in Haymitch’s room, asking Haymitch to set up an alliance between him and the Careers, strategizing how to save himself and Katniss both even though he couldn’t save them both. Peeta in Haymitch’s room, pressing faded photographs into Haymitch’s hands, telling him to save the girl. Peeta and Katniss, working so damn hard to save each other that they couldn’t save their own kids from themselves.

But that isn’t on Katniss. That isn’t even on Peeta.

This is on Haymitch.

He becomes dimly aware that he’s slid down and landed with his head in Peeta’s lap. There’s a hand running through his hair, another one clutching his shoulder. It feels nice. Not sexually or anything—just being touched. Nobody has touched Haymitch like this in a— _very_ long time.

Gradually, Haymitch allows his eyes to close.

Peeta in a bed in the hospital wing, thrashing around wildly _ferally_ Peeta with his hands locked around Katniss’s throat _she’s a mutt_ Peeta _she’s a killer_ Peeta, with his mouth in a gag with his wrists in a chain—blame—Games—

His literal guts are spilling out in front of his eyes and blood is seeping from where her eye should be and when he looks down her eyeball is on the ground staring up at him and she pounds the axe toward him but he ducks and he lucks and he looks up and her head is split it feels like _Haymitch’s_ head is splitting what is he—where is the—“Maysilee?”

“It’s Peeta, Haymitch. It’s Peeta Mellark.”

But Maysilee shouldn’t try to talk with her throat all skewered like—

The next thing he knows, he’s lying flat on his back, and Peeta is thumping out a beat onto Haymitch’s chest, and he’s coughing up vomit. He hacks it out and rolls onto his side, spitting.

“Haymitch, you okay?”

“Never better.”

“Oh, thank God,” says Peeta. “You fell asleep, but then you started throwing up, and—I think you choked on the vomit.”

“Great,” says Haymitch with a half-smile.

“It’s not funny. Your _heart_ stopped.”

“Stop _your_ heart,” grumbles Haymitch, too tired and disoriented to bother trying to make sense.

His mouth tastes sour, and it burns, and there’s thin, mucus-like vomit all over his face and the floor and the hand he was coughing into—he ran out of food to chuck up a long time ago. “Let’s clean you up, old man,” says Peeta, wadding up some toilet paper in one hand and standing.

He crosses to the sink and wets it, then drops down onto his haunches and touches Haymitch’s face lightly to angle it toward himself. Peeta makes slow swipes across Haymitch’s skin, folding the toilet paper over and over again on itself to get clean sheets to clean up with, and though he would _never_ admit it, Haymitch never wants Peeta to stop touching him, not ever.

“Can you stand?” Peeta asks finally, and he rises and holds out his hands. Haymitch grabs them and stumbles to his feet, letting Peeta guide him to the sink and turn on the faucet. Haymitch soaps up and rinses both hands, and then Peeta, his left hand sticky from holding Haymitch’s right, does the same.

“So I guess this means the hallucinations have started,” says Peeta as they sit back down again.

“Not hallucinations,” says Haymitch. “More like… like a waking dream. Nightmare.”

“I get those, too,” Peeta murmurs. “I wake up and I don’t remember where I am.”

“I’m going to try to sleep some more,” says Haymitch. He’s sure he must be tired, although he’s feeling so many things on top of it that he didn’t actually notice it before until he was passing out in Peeta’s lap.

“Sure,” says Peeta. “You want me to help you get into bed?”

Haymitch shakes his head vigorously. “I’m good right here,” he says, and plunks himself down on the floor in front of Peeta, who clicks his tongue and pulls Haymitch’s head into his lap. Haymitch would _never_ say it, but he’s kind of glad.

There’s an eyeball on the floor, and Haymitch doesn’t know who it belongs to. He tries to hack the axe through it, but it stays perfectly formed, like it’s made of granite. It’s not until Haymitch picks it up that he realizes it belongs to Briar.

Briar, who is five years old and sniffling as he tries not to cry in front of Haymitch. “What happened, kiddo?” Haymitch asks, and his voice sounds hoarse and concerned.

“He… he told me… he said I was…”

“Did it have to do with you being weak? Not strong enough? Not good enough?” Sheepishly, Briar nods and sniffles again, and Haymitch winces and then slides down the couch to where Briar is sitting and pulls him into a rough hug.

He could notify the authorities. He could do it. Katniss probably wouldn’t even give him hell for it: she’s never talked about Peeta’s abuse to Haymitch, not once, but she _must_ know about it, and he would be willing to bet that she’s ashamed of—at least herself, if not both of them—for it. Haymitch thinks about how many times Briar has come over here crying, how many times Rosy has told him she wishes she could live with him instead—

He’s walking back to his house with a fresh bottle of liquor in his hand when he sees Rosy come running out of _her_ house into the street. “Whoa, hey there, little miss,” he tells her. She runs right into his legs, and he hunches over and hugs her to his body. “Everything okay?”

“I… I…”

Rosy looks paralyzed with fear as she looks back to her house. Peeta is standing in the doorway, looking enraged in a way that Haymitch has never seen him before. It’s a different kind of fury than when he was hijacked. When he was _hijacked_ , Peeta was like a feral animal, but now—it’s like he’s fully in control and willing to _do it anyway_.

Haymitch’s stomach sinks like a stone. He recognizes that look: he’s seen it before on his father.

“Okay if I bring little Rosy over to my house for a spell?” he calls to Peeta.

“I’d really rather not,” says Peeta, obviously fighting to keep calm (enough). “Rosy and I were just in the middle of—”

“Great. I’ll bring her back after supper,” says Haymitch with a wave of his hand, and then he picks Rosy up and settles her on his hip and carries her all the way to the house. The bottle digs into her back a little, but she looks like she doesn’t mind. She’s really too old to be carried—going on six years old now—but she looks like she could use the comfort of being held. A faraway, distant part of Haymitch remembers that feeling from another life.

“Thanks for rescuing me,” says Rosy when they’re inside the house, and Haymitch feels prickles up the back of his neck.

“Rosy, sweetheart, I have a couple of questions I’m going to ask you, and I want you to be completely honest with me when you answer them, okay?”

She looks apprehensive, but nods shyly.

“Do you ever feel scared of your mom?” She shakes her head. “What about your dad?” A pause. “It’s okay to tell the truth, Rosy. I’m not going to get mad.”

“Sometimes,” she says, so earnest. “Only when he’s mad.”

“Is he mad a lot?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes.”

“Every week?”

“Maybe.”

“When your dad gets mad, does he hit you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Does he use his hand or—something else?”

“His hand.”

“Do you have any scars? Welts? Anywhere that he’s made a mark on you?”

“No.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah.”

Just in case, Haymitch tugs up her sleeves, then the bulk of her shirt, and finally (feeling dubious about whether he should be doing this or not) tugs down her pants and underpants to check her bottom. All clear. “Do you want some juice, sweetheart?”

“Like your grown-up juice?”

Shit. Rosy’s not supposed to know about that. “Nope. Orange juice.”

“Okay.”

“Okay. Go sit down at the table, and I’ll get us a couple of glasses, all right?”

He pours out one tall glass of orange juice for Rosy, then adds some to the second glass before adding rum to top it off. It makes him feel a bit ashamed, drinking in front of the kid, but she’s only five years old—she’s got to be too young to figure it out, especially since her parents rarely, if ever, drink. He brings the glasses to the dining room table, where Rosy is sitting on her hands and rocking back and forth a little.  
  
“I have a few more questions. You’re not in trouble, I promise,” says Haymitch, giving her the kid-friendly glass of juice.

“Is my dad going to get in trouble?”

“No, sweetheart, he’s not.”

“Okay.” She takes a deep breath.

“Does your dad ever yell at you?”

“Yeah.”

“Does he yell mean things?”

“Yeah.”

“Like what?” Pause. “What did he yell at you today?”

Rosy just stares at him for a second with wide eyes, and then she says in a halting voice, “He… he said I was a bad girl and he was going to send me away. He said Mom is a saint for putting up with me and that—and that—he said he’s not that patient. He said he can’t stand the sight of me and that Mom is going to leave with me and Briar and leave him all alone and it’s going to be all my fault.”

“He really said all those things?” asks Haymitch, and then he thinks better of it. “Of course he did. You said you would tell me the truth, and you did. You did a very good job, sweetheart.”

“I did?”

“You did.”

“So what happens now? Are you going to tell my mom and dad I told on them?”

He pauses, here, and thinks for a moment. “Do you want me to tell your mom and dad to be nicer to you?”

“No!” Rosy squeals. “Daddy will just get mad at me for tattling.”

Haymitch thinks about Peeta possibly punishing Rosy—holding it against her the next time he gets mad—and decides to give Peeta a stern talking-to about what he inferred, and what he inferred only. That he saw the fear in Rosy’s eyes, and he may not have been able to find any bruises on her, but that he’s watching Rosy—he’s watching Peeta—and he’s never going to stop watching.

He thinks about what he’s going to say to Peeta, and he thinks about the possibility of—having Rosy and Briar taken away from their parents. The courts won’t do anything unless Peeta hits hard enough to leave a mark, but Rosy is six years old and has never shown any signs of even the slightest injury or pain—he can keep an eye on it, but he doubts Peeta will go that far. He could take them in himself, of course. He couldn’t arrange for any kind of illicit adoption, legally speaking, but he could bring them to his house and just—not let them go. Katniss and Peeta would have to fight him for custody if they wanted to get the kids back, and he imagines that they would relent, because it’s _Haymitch_ and they know their kids are loved and safe.

He thinks about all these things, and then he thinks about the way he woke up in a puddle of his own vomit this morning, and the way his hands start to shake if he goes more than about six hours without a drink. He looks at the glass of juice in his hand that he couldn’t keep himself from spiking even in front of the kid.

He can’t take these kids in. He can’t take them in, and he’s going to spend the rest of his life hating himself for it.

He just doesn’t know it yet.

The next time Haymitch wakes, his head is still in Peeta’s lap, and Peeta is reading the book he brought over Haymitch’s head. “Toilet,” Haymitch croaks, and Peeta drapes Haymitch’s arm around Peeta’s shoulders and half-carries him over to the toilet, where Haymitch barfs up what little bile he can.

“I don’t know whether we should try to get you some water,” says Peeta. “I’m worried about dehydration, but I’m also afraid it’ll just come right back up again.”

“Try just a little,” says Haymitch. “In District 13—” a coughing fit interrupts him momentarily “—I almost died of dehydration.”

“I’ll go get a glass,” says Peeta. “Stay here.”

Like Haymitch can do anything else.

Everything he sees is swimming. He looks down, and there are maggots on the ground. He looks at _himself_ , and there are maggots there, too, crawlingout of stomach in the space where his intestines should be.

He wants a drink. This will all _go away_ if only he can have a drink.

But then—

Haymitch thinks about choosing drinking over the kids when he _knew_ that Peeta was hurting them. He thinks about what Katniss said, about whether he wants to see Briar graduate and Rosy open her restaurant. He thinks about—

—the first time he saw Peeta and Katniss after little Rosy answered his questions. A few hours later, after supper, he told Rosy he’d better take her back home, and she went cold and seemed to steel herself for the worst. He walked her over to the Mellark house himself, Rosy holding his hand, so trusting, so undeserved.

Peeta answered the door. “Rosy!” he cried, and something about Rosy seemed to melt into midair. He spun her around in the air and then set her down. “Your mom’s in the kitchen cleaning up dinner. Go help her,” he said in a hushed voice, and Rosy giggled and ran off.

And then Peeta and Haymitch were looking at each other. He looked at Peeta then, and he looks at Peeta now—back with the glass of maggots, holding out his hand to Haymitch—and he knows that he could never take these children away from Peeta and Katniss, could never break up this family that he loves with all his heart, because… well… he knows that Peeta and Katniss aren’t bad people. They’re not bad people, and they adore their kids, and _he_ adores _them_ , and Haymitch doesn’t want to have to choose between his children and his grandchildren.

He’s a drunk. He’s nothing but a drunk who can’t protect two precious kids from their parents, he tells himself. He’s too much of a mess to have any business saving anybody, he tells himself, because the alternative—the true reason he failed so hard—is too hard to stomach.

He’s a piece of shit.

“Haymitch, I need you to drink. Can you do that for me?”

Haymitch blinks, and Peeta ages about two decades in one moment. There are no maggots in the glass; it’s full of water.

“I need a drink,” he says.

Peeta says firmly, “No, you don’t.”

“ _Yes_ , I _do_.”

“Haymitch, I…” Peeta scrubs his free hand down his face. “I can’t force you. If you _really_ want to go back to the way things were, you’re going to find a way to get access to alcohol eventually. But our kids need you. Our _grandkids_ need you. Rosy told them that starting next week they’re going to get to see you ever day, and they’re _so_ excited to spend all that time with their Uncle Haymitch. Rosy herself was so happy to have a roommate again, what with you moving in here. And—and I need you, Haymitch.”

He snorts. “ _You_? No. Katniss, _maybe_ , but _you_?” Peeta has always held Haymitch at arm’s length from the rest of this family, and he knows it. Haymitch doesn’t know if it’s because Peeta thinks the drinking makes Haymitch a bad influence or because Peeta was afraid of Haymitch seeing too much of how Peeta treated the kids or _what_ it is, but he always has, and the thought that Peeta could _need_ Haymitch sounds like the punchline of a bad joke.

“You saved her over me in our second Games. I haven’t forgotten that you did that for me.”

“I did it for the Revolution.”

“Maybe, but she still got out safe and whole because of you. I don’t matter; Katniss does. And if Katniss needs you, then I need you, too. If my kids and my grandkids—”

“Yeah, yeah. You need me. They need me. Everybody needs me. What about what I need, huh? What if I can’t _do_ this? What if I can’t face—?”

“You can do this,” says Peeta. “You _can_. Just take a sip or two of water. For us. Please?”

Haymitch accepts the glass and takes the tiniest sip he can. When it doesn’t immediately come right back up, he takes another, larger, swallow.

“I’ll call the healer’s when she opens and see if I can get you another IV,” Peeta tells him. “You’re going to get through this. You are. You’re tough. You fought the Capitol and won more than once.” Downstairs, footsteps pad across the hall. “I’m going to go see who it is. Maybe see about making breakfast.”

And then Haymitch is alone in his head with everything he drank to tamp down.


	3. Chapter 3

Briar hasn’t seen any of his family in the two years he’s been living in District 1, but he at least talks to Mom every few weeks, and Rosy every Friday, and Uncle Haymitch briefly two or three times a week. Dad, on the other hand, he’s only spoken to the once, the other day, when Dad updated him on Haymitch’s condition, and then when the whole family gave Haymitch an intervention.

(He tried to call Rosy’s house from the train last night to check in on how the detox is going, but he couldn’t get a signal on his cell, which in retrospect doesn’t really surprise him: as far as Briar knows, it’s hard to get reception outside of Districts 1 and 2 and the Capitol. He knows that the differences between districts and the Capitol in access to luxuries like cell phones are less stark now than they were before the Revolution, but, well—from the sounds of it, those luxuries aren’t really in demand from the people in districts like 12, who are less concerned about what they see as novelties and more concerned about giving everyone running water and enough to eat.)

So when he gets off the train and scans the crowd for his parents, his stomach sinks when he sees Dad standing there waiting alone for him. Briar supposes it’s probably for the best that he get the initial discomfort of seeing Dad over with him, rather than having to dread it for the whole walk home, but that doesn’t make him any more pleased to see him. His heart may not start racing when he sees Dad anymore, like it used to, but that doesn’t mean he finds talking to Dad anything better than hardly bearable.

Dad is smiling, but he looks sad in spite of it. Is he still crippled under the guilt of knowing what he did to Briar and how it’s affected his only son? Briar hopes so. His relationship with his father would be so much more tolerable if he could be sure that Dad hated and blamed himself for what’s happened to it.

“Hey, Briar.”

“Where’s Mom?” Briar asks as Dad gives him a quick hug. Dad holds on for just a beat long enough to seem abnormal.

“Sleeping. She took the longest shift last night, and I told her I would come get you without her so that she could get some rest—she was falling over on her feet all morning. It’s Rosy’s shift to watch Haymitch. I’m sorry one of them isn’t here instead.”

Briar ignores that last point and instead asks, “How’s he doing?” as they set off toward town. “I tried to call last night, but I couldn’t get through.”

“Not good. We’ve already almost lost him twice—once when he choked on his own vomit in his sleep, and again from dehydration. The healer put him on an IV and gave us enough bags to last a few days, but he’s still struggling. He’s full into the hallucinations by now. Spent a full three hours this morning thinking that I was his dead father and shouting obscenities while he was trying to hit and kick me.” ****

Briar’s first thought is that he’s not surprised Haymitch would confuse Dad with his own father, given that he knows both are child abusers. His second is that he kind of would have liked to see that for himself. His third is to wonder why Mom and Dad didn’t just pay to send Haymitch to a rehab facility in District 1, where he could get proper medical care and Briar could check in on him—though he guesses that Haymitch never would have agreed to get sober if it involved going to one of those places.

It takes Dad maybe about ten or fifteen minutes to fill Briar in on Haymitch’s condition, and then Dad kind of—runs out of words. It’s fine by Briar, who is more than happy to walk the rest of the way to the house in silence, but then Dad clears his throat and says, “Tell me about school?”

“Well,” says Briar, “I’m studying environmental science with a specialization in energy sources.”

“So what kinds of classes are you taking?”

God, this is painful. “Environmental science classes. Some math. Some physics. Some chemistry. Some geology.”

“And you have three years to go?”

“Mm-hmm. It’s a five-year program.”

“So after you graduate, are you thinking—?”

“Dad, can we not? Can we just _not_? You know as well as I do that, if I wanted to tell you about all this, I would have asked to talk to you and not just Mom. Anyway, I know she’s already told you all this stuff.”

Three years ago, he _never_ would have been so bold as to basically tell his father to shut up because Briar doesn’t want to talk to him. But Briar confronted his father about his abusive behavior three years ago and _survived_ it. He took medication for his anxiety until he could be around Dad without having any anxiety response even when off the meds. He helped support himself and Rosy while working in the mines for a year, and he moved to a scary, faraway district and learned to live alone and handle all his own problems in an unfamiliar culture. Briar can do _anything_ , including telling Dad off—especially telling Dad off.

“Okay, honey,” Dad says very quietly, and it makes Briar’s blood boil.

The rest of the walk into town is blessedly quiet. They pass the schoolhouse and the healer and the Hob, and the place that used to be Dad’s parents’ burned-down bakery until somebody built a pottery store on top of it, and then, eventually, they’re in Victors’ Village.

Even with all these houses in the neighborhood, the only occupied ones are Mom and Dad’s, Rosy and Briar’s, and Haymitch’s. He knows that this is where Mom and Dad and Haymitch lived before the Revolution, but he wonders why all the rest of the houses have remained vacant. Maybe it’s because of the people of District 12’s tendency to look down on those who care about wealth and luxury. Maybe it’s just that nobody wants to be stuck with just the Mellarks for neighbors. Everybody loves Dad, that’s true, but Mom is a really controversial figure, politically speaking, and Haymitch—well, nobody but the Mellarks seems to want to bother with sloppy, drunk, crotchety Haymitch, whom Briar loves so, so much.

When they get to the house, Dad says, “He’s been on the bathroom floor upstairs ever since we brought him here. Hasn’t been able to stop vomiting long enough for it to be worth it to get into bed.”

“Is that normal? I mean—for someone who’s detoxing? Should we call the healer?”

“Nothing _about_ Haymitch is normal. When was the last time you saw a lifelong alcoholic detoxing at age eighty-plus?”

They deposit Briar’s backpack and luggage in the living room, head up the stairs, and turn the corner to the first bathroom on the left (there are two, upstairs, in this house). Sure enough, Haymitch is collapsed in front of the toilet, with a needle hooked up in his elbow and an IV bag hanging from a collapsible metal thing on wheels. “Who’s there? Father? I’m going to kill you. I’m going to—”

“ _Hey_ , hey-hey-hey, old man. Uncle Haymitch, it’s me. It’s your nephew, Briar.” He pauses for a second and then adds, “Your friend.”

“Briar?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Can’t be. _My_ Briar is off trying to fit in with those hacks up at school in District 1.”

“Well, _your_ Briar hopped on a train to come see you.”

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Too late now.” He drops down onto the floor, acutely aware that he’s probably sitting in wiped-up vomit and sweat, and reaches over to gingerly pull Haymitch into a hug. Haymitch doesn’t hug back—doesn’t seem to have the strength—but he hums a little and rests his head on Briar’s shoulder. “You know something?”

“What?”

Briar grins as he releases Haymitch. “I am so, so proud of you for doing this.”

Haymitch rolls his eyes.

“Seriously! I am.”

“I’m an old man at the end of his life, kiddo. It’s not like I’m going to buy myself much time by getting sober.”

“It takes a lot of guts to do what you’re doing. You’re tough. Get through this, and you’ll be around for years to come, I just know it.”

Dad, who has just been kind of hovering in the doorway watching them with a confusing look on his face up until this point, awkwardly clears his throat and says, “Do you want Briar to read to you, Haymitch?”

“ _Read_ to him?”

“That’s what I’ve been doing during my shifts. I told him, when I’m coming down to a nightmare, I like to listen to your mother’s voice. Here, I—one second,” says Dad, and he turns and ducks out into the hallway.

Haymitch is still kind of leaning on Briar’s shoulder, and Briar tips his head onto Haymitch’s as he waits for Dad to come back. It’s nice. Wishes it weren’t under these circumstances, though. When Dad returns to the bathroom, Haymitch starts puking up bile, just barely making it into the toilet.

Dad holds out a short stack of books, and Briar takes it and rifles through them. “You brought my favorites,” he says, a little dumbfounded. “You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered,” says Dad, looking so earnest. “What else would I bring?”

Briar has been reading to Haymitch for almost an hour before the hallucinations seem to set back in. He stumbles around blindly, ripping the needle out of his elbow, roaring about maggots and his mother and somebody named Maysilee. “Uncle Haymitch!” says Briar, and he tries to grab Haymitch by the shoulders, but humiliatingly, Haymitch is stronger than Briar, at least when he’s angry.

It takes Dad running back into the room and interfering to calm Haymitch down, or at least to contain him until the hallucinations pass. It’s rare that Briar has appreciated how _strong_ Dad is like this. The Games and storming the Capitol happened a long time ago, but Dad’s obviously been keeping up some of that strength, because he wraps his arms around Haymitch, binding Haymitch’s arms to his body, and manages not to let go no matter how hard Haymitch fights him.

“How are you this strong?” says Briar, flabbergasted.

“Oh,” says Dad, sounding bashful, still locking Haymitch in a death grip. “When I go out to gather fruit, I usually run to the woods and back, and I do push-ups and things out there before turning around.”

“I never knew that,” says Briar. Dad’s exercise regimen—Dad remembering Briar’s favorite childhood novels. Apparently, Dad is full of surprises today.

It’s a long twenty minutes before the hallucination passes and Haymitch stops shouting. “Peeta?” he asks, slumping in Dad’s arms.

Dad maneuvers Haymitch’s arm around Dad’s shoulder and keeps one arm looped around Haymitch’s waist, propping him up. “Welcome back, Haymitch.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Well, you were struggling. We’re going to have to call Mrs. Thornesmith to put your IV back in. And—”

“No, the—why are you helping me do this?”

“Get sober?” Haymitch nods. “Because my kids love you. My grandkids love you. My wife loves you. And—and I love you.”

He looks embarrassed as he says it, but he doesn’t blush or try to dodge the point. Haymitch scoffs. “No, you don’t. You’ve kept me at arm’s length all this time. Tried to keep me away from the kids—”

“I wanted to shield them from seeing you up close and learning to normalize alcoholism,” says Dad softly. “But you gave them a safe place to run to when things—when things got bad at home. I’ll never be able to repay you for that.”

“Fat load of good it did,” says Haymitch disgustedly. “Couldn’t get sober for either of them all these years.”

Briar feels like he’s intruding on a scene he has no business being in. He wants to get up and walk out, but he’s afraid that if he does, the spell will be broken and Haymitch and Dad will lose this moment together.

“It’s not too late,” says Dad.

“Yeah, it is, Peeta. I’m an old man. I’m dying. I’m not going to make it.”

“Do you really think that? Do you really think that detoxing is going to kill you?” Haymitch doesn’t respond. “I mean—maybe it will. Maybe you won’t survive this, and we’ll lose you for good. But you’re a tough son of a bitch, and if you want to survive, I really believe you will.” Haymitch just ducks his head. “You will. If you don’t want to do it for yourself, then do it for this family.”

“I’ve never been a part of this family. Not really. To you and Katniss, I’m a cranky old man who betrayed you for the Revolution.And you’re right. You’re—” He breaks off, coughing, while Dad thumps him on the back.

“Why did you do it?” Dad asks when Haymitch finally relaxes. “In the 75th Games?”

Briar frowns. Haymitch has _really_ never told Mom and Dad? He’s told _Briar_ when Briar asked.

“It was the only way,” says Haymitch. “The only chance to save you from a lifetime of what I’d lived. Mentoring new bait every year, your families threatened or dead, your whole romance broadcasted on television—”

He abruptly lunges for the toilet and dry heaves, but it seems to be a false alarm. When he settles back down, Dad rubs him on his back. “We forgive you,” he says eventually.

Haymitch snorts. “Speak for yourself.”

“All right. _I_ forgive you.”

“Enough feelings. We’re freaking out the kid.”

Dad looks at Briar like he’s never seen him before. “Time for more reading?”

“No,” says Haymitch, looking at Briar, “tell me about your fancy life in District 1.”

“Uncle Haymitch, I talk to you three times a week.” Did Dad know that? He knows now. Does it bother him that Briar talks to Haymitch so much more often than he talks to Mom—infinitely more than he talks to Dad? “You already know all about my life.”

“Tell me about the food,” Haymitch says, leaning back against the wall. “I’m an old man who can’t keep food down without puking. I want to hear what the food in _District 1_ tastes like.”

So Briar haltingly tells Haymitch about every food he can think of, drawing comparisons to tastes of foods and smells of things here in District 12. Haymitch tries to keep upright as Briar talks, but before long, he slumps over and lands on Briar’s shoulder.

Dad stays there the whole time, sitting on Haymitch’s other side, smiling a little when Briar brushes the hair off Haymitch’s forehead. “I can leave,” Dad says, “if you want to stay—I mean, if…?”

But Briar shakes his head. “You can stay,” he says. “Can we just sit here together?”

“Okay,” says Dad, so they stay there, just sitting on the bathroom floor, with Haymitch’s sleeping form in between them, and Briar feels sort of—not happy, not by any stretch, but at peace.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a bit behind on replying to comments - I will catch up later today - but I just want to say thank you SO very much to those of you who have been commenting <3 You guys make this story twice as rewarding and give me a lot of interesting and valuable perspectives to think about while I'm writing!
> 
> Next chapter will be POV Katniss and I am taking requests for conversation topics to be addressed!

It’s technically Rosy’s shift, but Briar doesn’t want to leave Uncle Haymitch’s side, so the three of them end up sitting side by side in the bathroom. “Are you _sure_ you don’t want us to move you to the bed?” she asks, squeezing Haymitch’s hand. “Because—”

“Tell you what,” he says. “If I can go this whole shift without throwing up, I’ll get in bed.”  
  
“Deal.”

Haymith squirms.

“What is it?”

“I need to piss,” he admits with only a little shame.

Briar interjects, “You want my help?”

Haymitch looks like he’s sorely tempted to say “no,” but he nods instead. “I’ll go grab the thermometer. We can take your temperature again after, see if the fever is breaking at all,” says Rosy, and she steps out and closes the door.

Dad is napping on the couch, but Mom is in the kitchen, cooking a turkey dinner for tonight. “Mom, where’s the thermometer?”

“Oh, I’ve got it right here,” says Mom, pointing to one of the countertops.

Rosy nods and grabs it, but before she heads back upstairs, she hesitates. “Do you think Uncle Haymitch is going to be okay?”

Mom smiles a little. “I don’t know. But he’s tough, Haymitch. He’s made it this far, hasn’t he?”

She waits until Briar opens the door to come back into the bathroom. Haymitch was already pretty damn sweaty just from the fever before Rosy grabbed the thermometer, but his whole face and neck look even shinier now from the simple exertion of using the bathroom. “I got it,” she tells them. “Uncle Haymitch, will you let me put this under your tongue?”

It’s not as bad as it was the last time they took his temperature, but it’s still high—a bit over 100 degrees. “Do you want us to read to you some more?” Rosy asks, but Haymitch shakes his head and says, “Can I watch you draw something?”

“Just let me get my stuff,” she says.”

When she gets back with her sketchpad and a charcoal pencil, though, she pauses outside the bathroom door. “…Sorry I didn’t do more,” Haymitch is telling Briar. “I should have stopped drinking as soon as I knew that it was happening. I should have taken you both in. I should have…”

“It’s okay, Uncle Haymitch.”

“It’s not. It’s not. I was selfish. I didn’t… didn’t want to have to choose.”

“Choose what?”

“Between you kids and your parents. They do love you, you know. I know your dad doesn’t show it right.”

“…Don’t worry about that. It doesn’t matter right now.”

Haymitch doesn’t answer, and Rosy gives it a few seconds before pushing open the door. “Got my sketchpad,” she says. “What would you like me to draw?”

Haymitch shrugs helplessly, and then Briar says, “Draw me and Uncle Haymitch?”

She draws Briar the age he is now, propping up the fictional Haymitch, and there’s no IV in his elbow, and he and Briar are both smiling out of the page. The real Haymitch just sits and watches her draw, eyes slipping in and out of focus.

By the time Rosy finishes the drawing, Haymitch has fallen asleep leaning against the wall. “He hasn’t thrown up in about five hours,” Briar points out. “Should we move him?”

Rosy shakes her head. “Let him sleep. We can move him when he wakes up.”

She feels terrible about leaving, but she hasn’t seen Ash or their daughters in a few days what with all this going on, and Briar and Mom both insist that she should go—they can handle Haymitch.

Ash isn’t expecting her, so she’s not _entirely_ surprised when she gets to the house and Ash is gone. Mr. and Mrs. Wheatshire, who are babysitting, say that he’s out on a date, and Rosy feels pleased to hear it. She’s dated a couple of women since Daphne was born—nothing that’s ever panned out, of course—but this is new for Ash, who’s carried a torch for Rosy as long as either of them can remember. Maybe Ash branching out and seeing someone new is a sign that he’s moved on.

As always, Rosy is forever grateful to Mr. and Mrs. Wheatshire for agreeing to let Ash keep living with them after the adoptions. The stipend that Mom and Dad pay Ash to care for Daphne (and now Maisie) is generous, but probably not enough for Ash to get a little house of his own, and Rosy knows that he’s really relied on his parents since having Daphne—both for moral support and for help babysitting the kids. When Ash is home, he mostly takes care of the kids single-handedly with Mr. and Mrs. Wheatshire just playing with the girls a little when they ask for it, but every time he goes out of the house or wants to spend time alone with Rosy, that’s an imposition on Mr. and Mrs. Wheatshire that they miraculously don’t seem to mind.

The girls are thrilled to have a surprise visit from their mother. Like always happens every time she sees them, Rosy feels a sharp pang of guilt that she wasn’t able to keep Daphne after she was born—that she and Maisie can’t live with their mother because Rosy never learned anger management from her father. The arrangement Ash proposed is working out beautifully, of course: the girls adore their dad, and Rosy is grateful to have Ash as her coparent, given how good he is with the girls and the opportunity it affords her to stay in their lives even if they don’t live with her. She knows this is what’s best for the girls, and she loves their little unconventional family. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t regret her own inability to teach her girls discipline in a functional way.

“Mommy, when do we get to see Uncle Haymitch like you said?” Maisie asks, tugging on Rosy’s pant leg.

She smiles. “Maybe in a few days. He’s feeling a little sick right now.”

“Uncle Haymitch is sick?” pipes up Daphne.

“Only a little,” says Rosy. She’ll tell her girls someday about Haymitch’s drinking problem—right before they hit the age that their peers will be pressuring them to drink—but they’re only three and six years old: they’re too young. “Do you girls remember when Daphne got the throw-up flu a few months ago? He feels a little like that. But he should be all better soon.”

Still, Daphne has the idea for them to draw him get-well cards, and Maisie enthusiastically backs her up. Rosy gets out some paper and crayons for both of them to share.

Maisie’s card is mostly unintelligible, but with Rosy’s help, she writes her own name—the S and the E are drawn going in the wrong direction—and Haymitch’s. Daphne’s card is much more advanced than Maisie’s is, obviously. She folds her paper in half, then asks Rosy to help her spell out “GET WELL SOON UNCLE HAYMITCH LOVE DAPHNE WHEATSHIRE.” The words take up the entire inside of the card. On the front, she draws a bunch of stick figures all in a row: herself, Maisie, Rosy, Ash, and Haymitch. At an afterthought, she adds Rosy’s parents and Mr. and Mrs. Wheatshire on a second row on top of the first. Then she adds a little sun with rays coming out of it and colors the top part of the background blue, for the sky, and the bottom part green, for grass.

“Is Uncle Haymitch your brother, like Uncle Briar?” asks Maisie.

“No, honey, he’s not.”

“Is he Grandma and Grandpa Mellark’s brother?”

“No, he’s—not actually related to Mommy or Daddy.”

Maisie drops her jaw comically, while Daphne presses, “If Uncle Haymitch isn’t related to us, how is he still our uncle?”

“Well, sometimes family aren’t related by blood,” says Rosy.

“What do you mean, ‘by blood?’”

“I mean… they’re not born in to the same family. Instead, they found each other in their lives. And we’re really lucky that Grandma and Grandpa Mellark found Uncle Haymitch, aren’t we?”

Vigorous nodding. Rosy smiles and takes the cards, promising to give them to Haymitch as soon as she gets back home. She waits until Ash gets back first, though, playing dollhouse with the girls for at least an hour as she keeps an eye on the clock.

When Ash does get home, he’s surprised but delighted to see Rosy, and wraps her in a big hug and kisses her cheek. “Let’s talk for a minute. Girls, go find your grandparents, okay?”

As Daphne and Maisie scamper off, Rosy and Ash sit down side by side on Ash’s bed. “Your parents said you had a date this afternoon? That’s awesome, Ash. Truly.”

“Eh—it was a bust,” he admits, shrugging, but he doesn’t seem too torn up about it. “District 12 is so small that she has to have known I have kids, but she didn’t seem too interested in meeting them and definitely doesn’t want any of her own. I don’t want to be with someone who’s not going to put my girls first.”

“That sucks, I’m sorry,” says Rosy.

Ash squeezes her hand and smiles. “’S okay. I have all the family I need right here in this house.”

“There you go again, being way too good for me,” laughs Rosy.

“Never,” Ash promises. “I wouldn’t ever want to do this without you.”

They’ve talked before about what they’re going to do in the future. Ash has always said that, if they’re both still single when Daphne and Maisie grow up and move out, he and Rosy should move in together. The idea gives Rosy a little squirm of guilt—Ash deserves better than being life partners with a lesbian who can’t love him back—but for the first time, she considers that maybe Ash isn’t in love with her anymore, and he’s keeping Rosy in his life as more than just the mother of his children because he loves her in his own way, a way that makes him happy.

Rosy hopes Ash is happy. He _seems_ happy, but then, her dad _seems_ like a sweet person who never gets angry, so Rosy has learned to take appearances with a grain of salt.

Back at home, dinner is almost ready. Briar is _still_ upstairs with Haymitch. He’s been going above and beyond just his scheduled shifts to take care of Haymitch, and Rosy knows it’s because the two of them are close. She considers herself and Haymitch to be pretty close themselves, after all those nights she spent sleeping over at his place and complaining to him about her parents, but Briar calls Haymitch, like, three times a week just to catch up, and saw him even more than that when he was younger. If Rosy could hazard a guess, she’d say that Haymitch is Briar’s best friend in the world.

Haymitch is awake, now, and listening to Briar read. “Uncle Haymitch, I have something for you,” she says awkwardly, and she holds out the cards.

Haymitch flips open first Maisie’s card, then Daphne’s. He doesn’t say anything for a long while, just grins. “Thank you,” he tells Rosy sincerely. “Tell the girls thank you for me.”

“Tell them yourself when they come over in a few days,” says Rosy.

Haymitch shrugs. “Yeah, all right.”

“Briar, dinner’s ready downstairs, but why don’t we get Uncle Haymitch set up in bed before we go down?”

They wrap one of Haymitch’s arms around Briar and the other around Rosy, and both of them wind an arm around Haymitch’s waist. Haymitch staggers a _lot_ on his feet, having only ever gotten up to use the bathroom for the last few days. Fortunately, Briar’s old room is close, and she and Briar manage to deposit Haymitch into Briar’s bed in one piece.

“Feel good?” asks Briar.

Haymitch nods and nestles into the pillow. “My whole body hurts. I didn’t realize until I lay down.”

“Briar, go help Mom set the table,” says Rosy. It’s _weird_ how easily she slips back into the role of a parental figure to him now that he’s home again, even after two years away at college. “Uncle Haymitch, I’m going to go wake Dad, and he’s going to come sit with you while we’re eating, okay?” Haymitch just nods. “Do you want us to bring you up a bit of food after we eat? You haven’t eaten in days, and you haven’t thrown up in a while.”

“I’m starving, but I don’t want to risk it,” grouses Haymitch. “You go on. Go wake up your sleepyhead of a father.”

Briar kisses his forehead, and Rosy rubs his shoulder, and they head downstairs together, Briar going into the kitchen to grab silverware as Rosy heads toward Dad on the couch. “Hey, Dad? Time for dinner.”

He’s tossing and turning a lot, rolling this way and that on the couch, to the point that she’s a little afraid he’s going to fall off. His forehead has broken out in a sweat. Apprehensively, Rosy grabs one of his shoulders and shakes, but he just bucks her off and moans a little. She clasps his arm in her hand and shakes harder. “Dad—”

“ARRGH!” Dad wakes with a start, but this is not the Dad that Rosy knows. His eyes are wild; he skids backward until he’s in a sitting position, but he’s looking around frantically and doesn’t appear to see Rosy at all.

“Dad? Are you—?”

“YOU!” he roars, and he thrusts his hands _hard_ into Rosy’s stomach. She goes down quick, and then he leaps off the couch and pins her to the ground with his whole body, covering her mouth with one hand and her nostrils with the other.

She can’t breathe. She can’t _breathe_ , and panic is starting to rise within her, but then she hears footsteps running into the room. Mom’s.

“Peeta! That’s not Katniss. _I’m_ Katniss. I’m the one you want.”

Rosy knows she looks a lot like Mom, and she’s aware that the hijacking made Dad afraid of Mom, made him think that she’s the enemy—but she’s never _seen_ Dad like this before, and it totally shocks her that he would lose control so badly as to mistake Rosy for Mom and try to _kill_ her. For maybe the first time, Rosy fully appreciates why Dad sleeps cuffed to the bed, even though she knows he only has night terrors about once a year.

She still can’t breathe, and the panic is in full force now, but she’s aware in the periphery of Dad looking between her and Mom, saying, “Katniss? Katniss? Rosy?”

And then _Mom_ is next to them, dragging Dad off of Rosy with considerably more strength than she sure _looks_ like she’s exerting. Rosy sucks in grateful lungfuls of air. She turns her head to one side, then the other, and sees Briar in the doorway, both handfuls of utensils on the ground in front of him.

“Katniss? _Katniss_? Katniss?”

“That’s right, Peeta. It’s me. It’s your Katniss. Just take a deep breath in, okay? And let it out slowly? For me?”

Scrambling to her feet, Rosy stays locked in place, in case Mom needs help throwing Dad off of her, but Dad doesn’t seem to be in the throes of it anymore—he mostly just seems confused, like a startled deer. Mom talks him through breathing until he stops hyperventilating. She pulls him into her arms and holds on tight.

“I’m sorry,” Dad breathes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. No naps without the cuffs on from now on, I guess—that’s a new one.” He laughs, but it sounds weak and limp. “Rosy—”

Mom loosens her hold on him so that he can twist to face Rosy. “I’m so sorry. I’m _so_ sorry. I can’t begin to—”

“Dad, stop,” says Rosy, “just… so I guess this is what you’re like when you’re hijacked.” She also gives a pathetic little laugh to match his.

“Yeah, well, it used to be way worse before,” says Dad, twisting so that he can lean on Mom’s shoulder. “It wasn’t just when I woke up from a nightmare—I was like that all day, all the time, anytime I saw or someone mentioned your mother.”

“How did you come _back_ from that?” says Briar softly.

“A lot of reverse hijacking with morphling. And a lot of help from your mother. We made up a game. It was called Real or Not Real, and we used it to help me learn the difference between real memories and false ones. Eventually, I got good enough at it that I could kind of—intercept the behavior before it started. But when I wake up, and I still think I’m in the night terror… well, you can see what happens for yourself.”

Briar looks like he’s about to start asking more questions, but Dad quickly climbs to his feet and says, “I’m going to go sit with Haymitch. I’ll bring him a trash can so he doesn’t get it on the bed if he pukes.”

Dad shoulders past Rosy and Briar, leaving the two of them standing there staring at Mom. She shrugs in a helpless sort of way and says, “Dinner?”

They’ve just sat down to eat when Briar bursts out, “How can you stay _married_ to someone who _does_ that to you?”

Mom swallows and sets down her fork. “It’s not his fault, honey. It’s complicated.”

“So uncomplicate it, then.”

“Well… your father was only hijacked because Haymitch saved _me_ instead of _him_ from the arena of the 50th Games. I know your father has done some things in this family that were… reprehensible—” it’s the closest Mom has ever come in front of Rosy to admonishing Dad for his abuse of Rosy and Briar, and Rosy is so shocked to hear it that her fork falls out of her hand and clatters onto her plate “—but _this_? Being hijacked and conditioned to think I was a Capitol mutt? Dad was weaponized without his consent as a result of people choosing me _over_ him. The _real_ Peeta Mellark would _never_ hurt me. He _always_ put me first. And I didn’t just _owe_ it to him to try to save him from that: I loved him too much to give up on him. At the time, I didn’t know whether it was romantic love or friendship or what, but—I loved him too much. All these decades later, I still have trouble sleeping without him.”

“But he _hurts_ you.”

“Not on purpose. Only when he loses control of his mind, which doesn’t happen often, these days. That’s what the handcuffs are for.”

“He hurt _Rosy_.”

Mom falters, at that. “That… has never happened before. Ever. And I’ll make absolutely sure that it never happens again.”

“But that’s not the only way he’s hurt Rosy—or me—and you know it.”

She sighs and bows her head and doesn’t answer for a bit. Finally, Mom says, “Yes. He has.”

“And that wasn’t because of some Capitol hijacking. That was all him.”

“Briar—”

“And you _let_ him! You'd stop him in the moment, but you _stayed_ with us, even though he did it _over_ and _over_ —”

“Briar,” Rosy interrupts, “let’s please not do this, okay?”

He rounds on her. “You’re _defending_ her?”

“I just think—we all know that what Dad did was wrong— _grossly_ unjust. But right now, what matters is being there for Uncle Haymitch, and you're turning this into another opportunity to hate Dad, like you always do.”

“Like I—!”

“I'm just saying, we can’t _do_ that if we turn on each other and get sucked into our own drama.”

“This isn’t going to go away just because we don’t talk about it,” Briar insists.

“I agree,” says Rosy calmly. “And we can have all the family therapy sessions you want, okay? Just— _after_ Haymitch makes it through detox and has been sober a little while. I can have Ash and the girls come keep him company for an afternoon while we all four hash out our stuff. All right?”

Briar stabs moodily at his turkey leg. “You can’t treat me like I’m sixteen years old and you’re my guardian anymore. I’m twenty-one. I’m an adult.”

“Oh, how mature,” Rosy teases. Briar tries to hide it, but she swears one of the corners of his mouth turns up.

Since she ducked out during her shift earlier to visit the kids, Rosy brings two plates upstairs—a full one for Dad and a much lighter one for Haymitch—and sits with them while Dad eats. When Dad leaves to go wash his plate, Haymitch looks at Rosy and says, “Sounds like I missed all the commotion downstairs. Your dad wouldn’t tell me what happened.”

“I woke him in the middle of a night terror. He thought I was Mom and, well, attacked me. Mom had to pull him off because I couldn’t breathe.”

“Well, shit,” says Haymitch, and Rosy asks—

“Why does she stay with him? Why did she let him be so close to us?”

It’s a vague couple of questions, but Haymitch seems to immediately cotton on to what Rosy is talking about. “Your parents both have a huge complex about protecting and not abandoning the other,” he says, stretching and rubbing his back. “They’re good together, but not so good at protecting their kids from each other. Or from themselves, for that matter.”  
  
His voice sounds weak, and he collapses back onto the mattress. He adds, “I’m sorry I didn’t protect you better when you were a kid. I should’ve gotten sober. Taken you two in.”

“You helped enough,” Rosy says. “You gave me a safe place to go. I’ll never forget that. Neither will Briar.”

Haymitch doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t protest when Rosy says, “Let’s try and get a little bit of food in you, huh? That’s got to feel good now that your nausea is better.”

He tries to feed himself, but his hand is shaking too hard to hold the fork, so Rosy takes it from him gently and feeds Haymitch herself. “The girls said to tell you how excited they are to see more of you. They want you to get better right away so they can start coming over.”

“Can’t imagine why,” says Haymitch. Stripped of his usual forceful sarcasm, he just sounds sad.

“Maybe this is your chance,” she tells him. “To be sober for them in a way you couldn’t be for me and Briar.”

“Yeah, maybe,” says Haymitch. But his voice is weak, and he doesn’t sound convinced.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we're getting close to the end, folks! I've already mapped out the last two chapters, so if you have any topics or interactions that you want to see addressed before that, speak now. Otherwise, there will be two more chapters, and then we'll *probably* be done (though I can see some of you being more satisfied with the ending if I were to continue the fic for a bit longer than planned).

About two days later, the tide begins to turn. Haymitch’s fever breaks, the hallucinations stop, and he even manages to get down a whole half-sandwich and _keep_ it down. He’s still flushed and sweaty, and his hands are still shaking, but not as badly, and his pulse has relaxed a little, too.

“You know what the worst part is?” Haymitch asks Katniss as she’s sitting in bed next to him, gently holding his hand. “I’ll even give you a hint. It’s not the throwing up, or the vivid-ass fever dreams and hallucinations, or the headache, or even the constantly feeling like I’ve just run a triathlon.”

“What is it, then?” says Katniss. She knows she sounds amused, but underneath of it, there’s a layer of fear that she doesn’t want Haymitch to know about.

“The boredom,” says Haymitch, cocking his head. “I am _so_ _unbelievably_ bored. It helps a little to be read to, or when I can watch Rosy draw and Peeta paint, or when you all talk to me about your lives, but we’re running out of things to talk about.”

“That will happen when you spend hours at a time every day with the same people,” Katniss acknowledges, grinning.

“It’s not even just that. It’s—without alcohol…” Haymitch sighs. He scoots back and props himself up on his elbows so that he can look at Katniss properly. “I used to drink. That was my hobby. Now, I’m in enough pain that I need a distraction, and ‘being in a drunken haze’ is not on the list of options. And what happens after the withdrawal ends, huh? What am I going to _do_ with myself for sixteen hours a day, if I can’t drink?”

Katniss purses her lips. “You could learn to paint or draw, like Peeta and Rosy. Or learn how to write. Hell, I’ll take you into the woods tomorrow if you feel up to it.”

“What’s the point in learning to do something if you’re not going to get any enjoyment out of it?”

“So you mean you’re depressed. You have depression.”

Haymitch hesitates. “Guess this means I do, sweetheart. Maybe I do,” he admits. “How do—well, _you’re_ a—sad person,” he adds, sounding like he’s trying to be lighthearted and utterly failing.

“…Yeah. I am, a lot of the time.” She likes to think it’s gotten better since she worked with Dr. Aurelius, but Peeta and the kids are constantly telling her she looks sad, and they can’t _all_ be wrong. She remembers feeling alive before the Games happened—when she was with Prim or with Gale—and she doesn’t really feel that way anymore, even though she’s sure she loves Peeta and Rosy and Briar just as much or more.

“How do _you_ cope with it?”

Katniss has to think hard about that one. “I try to do things that pass the time,” she says. “I still end up—I spend a lot of time looking at the clock and not believing how far there still is to go before it’s time to go to sleep. But hunting helps. It takes a lot of concentration to do it well, and when I get home, I realize a lot of hours have passed since I left. And—and Peeta. Peeta helps.”

Haymitch is still looking at her expectantly, so she adds, “Sometimes I do a—it’s sort of like a game, I guess, when the time is passing too slowly and I don’t want to be awake. I count up to the nearest ten minutes on the clock, and when I get there, I start counting to the next nearest ten minutes again, and so on.”

“Doesn’t that get… you know, repetitive?”

“Not… I mean, it breaks up the time into manageable chunks. I sit down with a book, and I don’t feel like I have the attention span to read it for an hour, but I tell myself I can read for ten minutes. Then, when ten minutes are up, I feel like I can stand to read for another ten.”

“Have you got anything for the…”

She knows what he’s talking about, even if he doesn’t know how to articulate it. “The tired, dreary feeling? The emptiness? The lack of interest in anything?” Haymitch just looks at her for a few seconds, then nods. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

Haymitch leans his head against the wall. “Getting sober was a mistake. All I want to do is drink, but if I do, all this effort will have been for nothing. But I don’t want to pass the time doing anything else.”

Katniss smiles sadly. “Not even hanging out with your family?”

“Now, _drinking_ with my family, on the other hand,” says Haymitch, and Katniss lets out a loud laugh.

“Too bad for you, none of us are drinkers, or you could live vicariously through us.”

“I don’t know. Briar could give me a run for my money, I bet. I’ve binge drunk with him before, after Moxie died.”

“You just think it would be entertaining to watch him make himself as sick as you feel right now.”

It’s Haymitch’s turn to laugh. “Fair enough, sweetheart.”

“I always feel bad when it’s my shift to sit with you,” Katniss admits. “I don’t know what to say, and I don’t know what to do, because I _never_ know what to do with myself. Not unless I’m out hunting.”

“Maybe we can play the Ten Minutes Game,” Haymitch suggests with a gleam in his eyes that Katniss hasn’t seen there in a long time. “But really—don’t feel too bad. You made me laugh. _You_ did that. I think I was drunk the last time I laughed for real.”

She smiles a little. “You must be healing up, then.”

“That, or the rest of your dumb-ass family isn’t very amusing.”

“Don’t talk down to my dumb-ass family,” says Katniss with a grin. “So how do you want to spend your next ten minutes?”

“Just sit here with me,” says Haymitch quietly, “and let me lean on you.”

“Of course.”

It turns out that Haymitch means he wants to _literally_ lean his head on Katniss’s arm. She doesn’t mind. It’s kind of nice, just sitting and passing time together, occasionally making jokes or checking the time. Even if it is a little boring, Katniss is used to constantly feeling bored in a depressed sort of way, so it’s not anything out of the ordinary for her.

At dinnertime, Rosy cooks, and Katniss and Briar both help Haymitch walk down the stairs and settle him into a dining room chair. It takes at least five minutes, if not ten, for Haymitch to make it from point A to point B. Katniss isn’t surprised: he wasn’t all that strong to begin with, especially at his age, and his muscles have probably atrophied a great deal since he began to detox and stayed put on the bathroom floor for so long.

Haymitch manages a whole bowl of stew, albeit slowly, before they clean up the dishes. They divide up the night shifts: Rosy and Briar will cover Haymitch until three, after which they’ll go to sleep and Peeta and Katniss can split up the rest of the night as they wish.

“We’ll see you soon, Haymitch,” says Peeta as Katniss gives Haymitch a kiss on the cheek and a hug. He waves them off amusedly, and then Katniss and Peeta lace fingers and head across the street.

The house has felt to Katniss to be in a perpetual state of extra-quiet ever since Briar moved out. Peeta is stress baking again. It’s going to get dark out too soon for Katniss to really be able to justify going to the woods, so she grabs a book at random and curls up in bed with it. She passes ten minutes. Then another ten. Then another.

After about two hours of this, when Katniss _really_ just about can’t take it anymore, she hears creaking on the steps. Peeta. Moments later, he opens the door and joins her in bed.

“Haymitch was better today,” says Peeta while Katniss is locking the cuffs. “I was really worried a couple of days ago that he wasn’t going to make it—from the dehydration, if nothing else—but I think he’s going to make it now.”

She sets the key on the nightstand, climbs into bed, and curls up behind Peeta. “I do, too. I’m happy for him, but I’m worried, too.”

“Worried why?”

“He said he doesn’t know what to do with himself other than drink. I don’t think he’s very happy, Peeta.”

“Well, you would know something about that,” says Peeta. She can’t see his face, but he _sounds_ careful, sensitive. “You can live a good life even if you struggle with depression.”

“I guess so,” says Katniss. She wouldn’t trade her life with Peeta and the kids for the world, in spite of how sad she usually feels—it’s like the fierceness of the love that’s there balances some of that out.

But as soon as she thinks to herself that there’s nothing she would change, she feels a flush of shame creep over her. Her husband, the love of her life, is a child abuser, and she wouldn’t change that given the chance?

It feels like Katniss has spent the last twenty-five years justifying to herself her decision to stay with Peeta. She knew it would destroy Peeta if she took the kids and left, so she didn’t—at their expense. She did what she could to intercept the abuse when she saw it happening—rather effectively, she might add—but it would often start up when she was in the other room or go on while she was in the woods, and she didn’t figure out how to completely protect them until Rosy was about sixteen, Briar about twelve.

How could such an incredible husband and person be so flawed at fatherhood?

When Katniss frees Peeta’s wrists, changes the time on the alarm, and then heads back over to Rosy’s house, she comes inside to find Briar curled up on top of the bed with Haymitch, who is mercifully asleep. “He’s been out for about an hour,” Briar whispers. “He keeps waking up, but I don’t think it’s because he feels so bad anymore—I think his sleep schedule is just out of whack from only being able to doze off when he could these last few days.”

Katniss thanks him and promptly takes Briar’s place on the mattress. She intends to stay awake, so that she’ll immediately notice if anything goes wrong, but the next thing she knows, the clock reads six in the morning, and Peeta is climbing into bed on the side of her that Haymitch isn’t occupying.

“Go back to sleep,” he says in a hushed voice. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

So she does.

When she wakes again, Peeta is gone, and she hears shouting downstairs. Haymitch is still out cold, so she slips out of bed and pads down the stairs to find Briar laying into Peeta in the kitchen, where a platter of burnt pancakes and a dirty mixing bowl sit on the counter. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” says Katniss. “What’s going on here?”

“And you!” says Briar, completely ignoring her question. “All those years, you _knew_ what was happening and saw what was happening and didn’t do anything to stop it.”

“That’s not fair,” says Peeta, frowning. “She stopped it. She—”

“She intervened on our behalf, but she didn’t _stop_ it. Not until Rosy was almost an adult. You could have stopped it all along,” he says, rounding on Katniss, “so why didn’t you? Why did you leave me there to rot for sixteen years? Why—”

“We can do this later,” she tries to tell Briar, but he’s not having it.

“Why does everybody always think it’s the wrong time? My whole childhood was the wrong time for Dad to _abuse_ me—where were you then, huh? Where were you then?”

Katniss has always been aware that Briar blames her for her part in the abuse, but until now, it’s seemed like she’s gotten off scot free because he’s buried his resentment of her underneath his anger at his father. Apparently, he’s not going to let her off so easy anymore.

“I’m going to go sit with Haymitch,” says Briar, and he storms off.

“Briar—!”

“Let him go,” says Peeta. “He’s right about us, you know.”

He sounds _desolate_ , and Katniss crosses the room and envelops him in a hug. “You’re not a terrible father, Peeta.”

“Yes, I am, Katniss. It’s okay. I am.”

“Why do you let him shout at you like that? This wasn’t the first time he’s done that.”

“He let _me_ shout at _him_. Horrible things. He couldn’t stop me then, so why should I try to stop him now?”

Katniss gives Peeta a long peck on the lips. “It’s not good for any of us, including Briar, for him to cart around this much anger.”

“Now you’re just trying to make me feel better about myself,” says Peeta with a weak grin. “I don’t need you to make excuses for me, Katniss.”

“He’ll work through it eventually,” she says. “He’ll have to.”

She hopes that she’s right. The alternative is to admit that they’ve both completely failed as parents, and, well—Katniss doesn’t know what she’ll do if it turns out that her lifelong mission of taking care of Peeta has irreparably damaged one of their children. She loves her children more than she loves her own life, but does she love them more than she loves Peeta?

She knows what the answer to that question _should_ be. She’s just afraid that the _real_ answer will be the wrong one.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this time, sorry! I wrote it out and considered trying to make it longer, but it accomplishes everything I wanted to accomplish before the next plot point, and I didn't want to add filler just for the sake of adding filler.
> 
> Shit will hit the fan in the chapter after this one, though, and I'm here for it ^^ Thank you again everyone for the lovely and thought-provoking comments!!!

Haymitch isn’t sure whether he’s surprised or not when Briar tells him that he doesn’t want to take Rosy up on her offer for family therapy. “What’s the point?” he asks Haymitch. “It doesn’t change anything Mom and Dad did. It doesn’t change the way I feel about them.”

“But it might. Isn’t that the whole point of therapy? Changing the way you see things?”

Briar scoffs. “I don’t think any amount of therapy would make me change the way I see my dad’s history of abuse.”

They’re upstairs in Briar’s old bedroom. Haymitch is fairly certain that the withdrawal is over at this point, although sobriety is such an unfamiliar feeling by now that he still feels like his mental state has been completely tilted off its axis. He’s well enough to get out of bed, really—it’s just that he’s so weak, due to his usual frailty coupled with the effects of sitting on the bathroom floor and essentially not moving for days, that he feels winded every time he tries to walk more than a few paces.

Briar has been bringing two plates full of food up into the bedroom at every meal so that Haymitch has someone to eat with without having to brave the stairs. Every hour, Briar half-carries Haymitch as they walk slowly around the top floor of the house. Briar insists that over time it will pay off and build up Haymitch’s strength, but Haymitch is an old man and his hopes are not high for recovery.

Katniss and Peeta and obviously Rosy are still in the house all the time, but they’re not dividing up babysitting shifts anymore. Briar insists that he didn’t come home from school just to sit around by himself somewhere without Haymitch, so for the most part, Briar is at Haymitch’s beside from dawn until dusk. Pretty much the only time Haymitch is alone is at night when everyone else is sleeping.

Which is fine by Haymitch, really. Constantly being in Briar’s company helps him take his mind off of how badly he needs a drink.

It’s not about pain or nausea or hallucinations anymore. He may not _physiologically_ need a drink, but mentally—well, that’s a whole other story.

It’s like he told Katniss: the worst part is the boredom. At least drinking gave his mind something to do. Now, he’s just… languishing.

“Briar,” he says now, “your mom and dad are a lot of things, but they’re not evil, and they do love you. Now, I’m not saying you owe them anything, but you— _you_ —might feel better if you quit carrying around all that anger and learned to live with what they did to you.”

“‘Learned to live with it?’ What do you think I’ve been doing all these years?”

“Not making peace with it, that’s for certain,” says Haymitch. When Briar tries to protest, he adds, “I’m not saying you need to believe or even pretend like everything’s okay. I’m just saying I don’t like to see you letting them keep hurting you years after they stopped trying to.”

Briar rolls his eyes. “Whatever, old man.”

“Just think about it, kiddo. Okay?”

Briar doesn’t answer, instead asking abruptly, “Time for another walk around the house? I was thinking we could try the stairs again this time.”

Haymitch swears. Briar’s laugh sounds almost like a cackle.

Ash brings Daphne and Maisie over to visit the next day. They’re delighted to see Haymitch, although Rosy cautions them against trying to make Haymitch run around or chase after them or—do anything that doesn’t involve sitting in the living room playing in one place, really. Daphne is thrilled to see Briar again as well; Maisie doesn’t remember him at all—she was only one year old when he left for District 1—but Rosy has talked to her enough about her Uncle Briar that she’s still managed to work herself up into an excited frenzy about meeting him.

Haymitch is just grateful that he’s got Briar to split the load of watching the kids with. Playing with small children is _exhausting_.

Ash stays and chats with Rosy while the kids play with Haymitch and Briar. For the first twenty minutes, he thoroughly enjoys seeing them again and helping them make up asinine stories about their toy figurines. By the end of the first hour, he’s pooped out. By the end of the _second_ hour—well.

“Girls, why don’t you let your Uncle Haymitch take a rest? Come play with Mommy and Daddy,” Rosy calls over, and Haymitch could cry with relief.

It’s not that he doesn’t love the girls. He does. He just—prefers them in short doses.

“We’ll be back same time tomorrow,” Ash promises as they’re finally, finally leaving. “Haymitch—great to see you. I’m glad that you’re feeling better. We’re all so proud of you.”

“Yeah, well,” says Haymitch, but he’s secretly a little pleased.

Haymitch stays downstairs through dinner, which is an incredibly strained affair. Briar spends more time glaring daggers at his parents than he does eating, and Rosy’s attempts to make conversation feel forced.

After they’re done eating, Briar helps him upstairs, and they both climb on top of the bed, tipping their heads back against the wall. “So I wanted to mention,” Briar says, sounding like he’s being very careful to try and sound casual, “that I bought my ticket this morning.”

“Your ticket?”

“For the train. Back to school. I, uh—I leave in a week.”

Haymitch scrutinizes him for a moment. “I’m never going to see you again, am I?”

“What? Of course you are. I wouldn’t just—”

“You don’t even come home for the holidays,” Haymitch points out, “even though you could. And—well, there aren’t exactly jobs in alternative energy here in District 12.”

Briar positively _pouts_. “I’ll keep calling. Three times a week. I can start coming at Christmas. I can—”

“Kiddo, I don’t think it’s a _bad_ thing for you to leave this place behind. You obviously love school, and—well, there’s not really anything left here for you to come back to.”

“But… what about you? What about Rosy?”

“Rosy has a whole life here that makes her happy. She’ll be okay,” says Haymitch. “And I—well, I’m not going to be around forever, am I?”

“I could take you with me,” mutters Briar. “You could—”

“I’m not going to make you babysit me in all your time outside of class. Hell, I’d probably fall off the wagon again the second you turned your back on me. Better for me to stay here, where the whole family is watching out for me.”

Briar unexpectedly reaches over and lies on top of Haymitch’s torso, slinging an arm around Haymitch’s waist. “I wish… I wish…”

“I know,” says Haymitch, patting Briar awkwardly on the head. For whatever reason, he desperately wants Briar not to feel like he has to explain himself. “Me, too.”

It doesn’t take any cajoling to get Briar to agree to read Haymitch to sleep. In lieu of being able to drink, Haymitch sleeps all the time now. It helps pass the time, and when he wakes up, he feels a little less like he’s going to break down any moment.

Briar’s behind on his studying, so Haymitch tells him to read out of one of his textbooks. It’s terribly dull, and Haymitch is asleep within minutes.

He dreams that—

It’s family night, but the table has gotten bigger. All the usual suspects are there—Maisie playing with her food, Rosy laughing at something Katniss said—but so are Haymitch’s mother and brother and girlfriend, who’s holding Haymitch’s hand under the table. She looks as young and beautiful as ever, and so does he—he’s a teenager again, and his hair is blonde, and his skin is smooth and unwrinkled. Sitting on Haymitch’s other side is Briar, who is smiling at Peeta, for once.

They all look happy and whole and undamaged, like there was no Reaping to draw Katniss and Peeta into a war, like Rosy and Briar never felt the heavy hand of abuse, like Haymitch’s first family never died at Snow’s hands. Like his second one never tried to rip itself apart.

“We’ll be okay,” Briar tells him, resting his head on Haymitch’s shoulder. “You go on.”

“But—”

“I already know,” he says. “It’s okay. We all already know.”

“I’m sorry,” says Haymitch. “I’m sorry I didn’t do a better job for you.”

“You did the best you could,” says Briar, “and as well as I needed you to.”

“I love you,” Haymitch says. It’s been years since he’s said that aloud to anyone, and it feels strange but fitting on his tongue.

“I love you, too, Uncle Haymitch. Grandpa. Go be happy. Do it for me, okay?”

He tips his head against Briar’s. “Come find me when you’re ready. I’ll be waiting.”

And then—black.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone commenting: you are the light of my life. Seriously, this fic may not have many readers, but the ones it has are the absolute best ones. THANK YOU. I love you all, and I hope this chapter addresses some things that you’ve all been asking about! (I have a feeling some of you are going to be very happy about halfway through.)
> 
> The story was supposed to end here, but I’m pretty tempted to keep going… especially since Briar doesn’t really notice anybody’s grief but his own.

Briar doesn’t notice the exact moment that Uncle Haymitch stops breathing. One minute Haymitch is rolling over a little in his sleep—Briar looks down at the textbook and reads another couple paragraphs aloud—and then he stops, because Haymitch’s chest is no longer expanding and contracting in Briar’s peripheral vision. “Uncle Haymitch?” he says, so, so quietly. “ _Uncle Haymitch_?”

He rolls Haymitch onto his back and leans down to listen for even the faintest breath, but he doesn’t hear or feel it. He scoots down and puts his ear to Haymitch’s chest. Nothing.

“ _Uncle Haymitch? Uncle Haymitch?! UNCLE HAYMITCH?!_ ”

By the time Dad comes running into the room, Briar is hyperventilating (which is _so stupid_ —it’s not like Briar can breathe hard enough for both of them) as he shakes Haymitch’s shoulders. “Briar?” says Dad.

“He won’t wake up. He’s not breathing. He’s not breathing! His heart stopped! He—”

It happens quickly: one second Dad is standing shell-shocked in the doorway, and the next he’s standing next to the bed and pulling Briar against his chest. “Don’t touch me!” Briar cries, struggling. “Don’t you touch me! I hate you! I hate you! He’s _gone_ , he’s gone, he’s—he’s go-o-o-o-one.”

Something gives way in Briar’s chest, and he collapses into his dad, sobbing. He’s dimly aware that Mom and Rosy are there, edging into the room and asking what’s the matter, but he can’t answer them. His dad holds him tightly, and Briar thinks, good. Dad _owes_ him this. Then: how _dare_ Dad soothe him like everything’s going to be okay. _Nothing_ is okay. Haymitch is _dead_.

He really, really doesn’t know how he makes it through that first night without Haymitch. Mom seems too affected to be around anyone, leaving abruptly for the woods. Rosy weaves in and out of the room, bringing Briar water, carrying Haymitch’s body away into the bathtub, sitting with Briar and Dad, ducking out for a while to go and notify the healer. Only Dad really stays with him, and Briar wishes he wouldn’t. He cries himself to sleep, eventually, but he keeps shouting himself awake every hour or two and breaking down crying again. Dad stays in bed with him—on the side of the bed where Haymitch’s body used to be—staying awake all night so he can hold Briar as he cries.

It’s a fucking mess.

This is _so much worse_ than it was when Moxie committed suicide. Briar is thicker-skinned now, it’s true, but Moxie, as much as he didn’t want to admit it at the time, was an abuser, and there was an element of guilty relief when she died. Haymitch—what was his crime? To drink himself half to death alone in the house that none of the Mellarks visited often enough, numbing the pain of everything he saw and everyone he lost too young? As far as Briar’s concerned, the only person Haymitch ever hurt was himself, and if he wanted to drink himself stupid, who was anybody to complain?

Dad leaves at dawn to go get some sleep; he says goodbye to Rosy, and Rosy climbs into bed with Briar to replace him. It’s so obvious now that they never should have asked Haymitch to get sober. When the healer comes that morning, Briar hears her telling Mom that there’s no way to tell what killed Haymitch—whether detoxing was too much for his frail body, or the alcoholism caught up to him and it was too late for sobriety to do any good, or it was natural causes (he _was_ in his eighties, after all), or he just plain lost the will to live. But Briar _knows_ it’s their fault. Haymitch never wanted to get sober—he only went along with it because they guilted him so badly—and clearly his body was too weak to take the strain.

He was Briar’s best friend. He was Briar’s best friend in the whole world, and he’s gone now, and it’s all Briar’s fault.

He always felt—a special connection to Haymitch. Even when he was a little kid, he could tell Haymitch anything, and Haymitch would listen and support him to the best of his ability. Haymitch was there for Briar in his own flawed way after Moxie’s death, and because of it, Briar made sure that the Mellarks started including Haymitch more broadly in their family. They made each other laugh. They gave each other hope. Even when Briar was an adult, it gave him great pleasure and no shame to call Haymitch up every other day and keep him abreast of all the mundane, stupid details of Briar’s life.

They had a special bond, and he never _told_ him. Briar never told Haymitch that he was Briar’s best friend, and now, he never will.

He’s dimly aware of Rosy bustling around making funeral arrangements after Mom takes over for her. The rotation to watch Haymitch has been replaced by a rotation to watch Briar. As if he’s as important as Haymitch was. It makes him feel sick.

Once the crying stops, Briar doesn’t speak for a long time. Mom doesn’t push; she just quietly sings to him and, then, begins to tell stories.

Simple stories, at first. Reminding Briar of jokes Haymitch told at family night, or talking about funny things he said and did with Briar and Rosy when they were little. But then Mom starts talking about the Games and the Revolution.

Real talk: Mom and Dad _never_ talk about the Games or the Revolution. But the story Mom weaves—

She and Dad were the first tributes in years and years that Haymitch really invested in. It made Mom angry at the time, but she understands, now, the drain it must have been on him to raise two kids for slaughter every year. When they won the 74th Games, it was the first time that Haymitch had someone—two someones—who understood what it’s like for your life to become a television show at the mercy of the Capitol. He promised each of them that he would help the other win in the arena of the 75th Games, and instead, he turned around and plotted with the Capitol to make both of them implicit in the Revolution. When Mom found out, she attacked him.

When Mom moved back to District 12 from District 13, and _her_ mother didn’t come with her, Haymitch volunteered to come and keep an eye on her—and, eventually, on Dad too. He was like a father to them. She resented him, used him, hurt him, tried to separate him from Briar and Rosy, and Haymitch still stayed sober enough to rescue her—twice—and to give her children a safe place away from—

She can’t go on, at that point. Good.

The afternoon of that first full day without Haymitch, as much as Briar wants to huddle in bed and mourn forever, he admits that he needs to go to the bathroom if he doesn’t want to piss or shit himself. He climbs out of bed so abruptly that Mom flinches. “Briar, honey?”

“Toilet,” he says simply. It’s the first thing he’s said since he managed to stop crying.

While he’s in there, he looks at his razor sitting on top of the sink and thinks, maybe—

No, he tells himself firmly. He can’t do that to—

But Haymitch is gone, now. And if he went, too, then Briar would get to see him again. Maybe he’d even get to see Moxie again. Maybe she would be better now, without the burden of mental illness weighing her down. Besides, who else would be left to miss Briar? He doesn’t care if it breaks Mom’s and Dad’s hearts to lose him. Maisie doesn’t even remember him, and soon, neither will Daphne. He hasn’t formed any meaningful relationships up at school. The only person who would care—whom _he_ would care cared—is Rosy, and she would have Mom and Dad and Ash and the girls to get her through it.

There’s a knock on the bathroom door. “Briar? Everything okay in there?” It’s Mom’s voice.

He’s been staring at the razor for longer than he thought. “Yeah. Fine,” he says, and he flips up the toilet lid and unzips his fly.

Rosy comes up a couple hours later and sits down at the foot of the bed, by Mom’s feet. “So stop me if you’re not ready to talk about this,” she says warily as she settles into bed, “but the funeral’s going to be three days from now. Dad says that Uncle Haymitch didn’t follow any religion, so we’re just going to host our own ceremony, and anyone can come who wants to. I picked out a plot for him in the cemetery—right next to the plot Mom and Dad will have someday—and… well, I thought you might want to do the eulogy.”

“Me?”

“If you want to,” says Rosy anxiously. “I know Mom and Dad have known him longer, but you two were the closest. I just thought it might help you to… to write it down, and I’m sure everyone would be eager to hear what you would have to say.”

Briar doesn’t answer right away. He just keeps picturing Haymitch after Moxie died, telling Briar that he’s been in this family for decades and has never been invited to family night. “Yeah,” says Briar. “Yeah, okay. I’ll do it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Rosy rubs one of his calves through the blanket. “All right. There’s dinner ready downstairs if you want some, Briar. You want to come down with me and Mom?”

Numbly, Briar slides out of bed and follows them downstairs to the dining room, where Rosy ladles out stew (her usual holdover) for all four of them. Mom, Dad, Rosy, and Briar. The table feels empty without Haymitch sitting there with them.

“Briar agreed to do the eulogy,” Rosy tells Dad.

Dad nods and swallows and says, “That’s great,” like they’re just making small talk. Like it’s any old day and Haymitch isn’t gone from their lives forever.

“I thought we could start with your paintings, Dad, and then have Briar speak, and then invite anyone who wants to share a memory of Uncle Haymitch to do so. Then—”

And like that, Briar just can’t take it anymore. “I’m sorry, but are you fucking kidding me?”

Rosy and Mom exchange a look like _here we go again_. It does not help Briar’s mood.

“Are we really going to sit here and act like it’s not our faults that Uncle Haymitch is dead?”

“You don’t know that,” says Mom carefully. “Mrs. Thornesmith said—”

“I don’t give a flying fuck what Mrs. Thornesmith said. He stops drinking, and a week later, he’s dead? That’s not a coincidence.”

Dad interjects, “It’s normal for the living who survive someone to feel guilty about it. Haymitch was—”

“Uncle Haymitch was a very sad and lonely man who drank to ease the burden of living, and we took that away from him. We put him through _hell_ , and it killed him, and he didn’t even—he wasn’t—he was only ever anything close to happy when he was drunk, and thanks to us, he had to spend his final days sober. Sober and depressed and _bored_. I mean, what was the _point_ of getting him sober if it wasn’t going to help him live a longer life?”

“There was always a risk that he would die during detox. Haymitch knew that. He—”

“He didn’t do it for _himself_. He didn’t do it because _any_ of this made his life better. He did this for _us_ ,” snaps Briar. “He did it for us, and look what it cost him.”

“Haymitch was a grown man, and he was fully capable of refusing to detox if he didn’t want to,” says Mom calmly, and _why_ is Briar the only one who’s upset about this? _Why_ is it that nobody cares Haymitch is dead but Briar?

“We pushed him into it. We pushed him into it _just_ like _you two_ pushed him into seeing as little of me and Rosy as possible when we were growing up, and he _still_ managed to protect us from Dad a million times better than you ever did. I don’t _care_ if he was an alcoholic or a bad influence or—or responsible for getting me wasted when Moxie died—he was a _damn_ sight better of a father to me than Dad _ever_ was—”

“Briar!” says Rosy, but Briar doesn’t care. Haymitch is dead and _he doesn’t care_.

“—And now he’s _gone_ , and I can’t even thank him. He was the best friend I _ever_ had—the best _father_ I ever had—and I never got to tell him. I never got to tell him.”

He’s rocking back and forth in his seat, clutching his head, crying again. Dad tries to rub his back, and he screams, “Don’t _touch_ me! You’re a _monster_! Don’t—”

“Briar, _that’s enough_ ,” says Rosy sharply, and Briar doesn’t think he’s heard her this angry in a long, long while.

“Oh, so now you’re on _their_ side?”

“I am on _your_ side, and as the biggest supporter you have left in this world, I think you need to be told that you’re out of line.”

“Out of line?” Briar scoffs. “Like Dad was for our entire childhood? I don’t think—”

“Yeah. You know how I know? Because Dad _was_ out of line for our entire childhood, and _you sound just like him_!”

“I have a _right_ to give back what he gave me!”

“Yeah, and how do you think he justified it to himself when he would talk out of turn to _us_?”

 _That_ rattles Briar, and he stops for a moment, catching his breath. He hadn’t even realized that he was panting. “That was different. I’m talking _to my abuser_. We were kids when he did that to us, Rosy! Little kids!”

“I don’t care if he deserves it or not, although for the record, I don’t think he needs you laying on any more guilt than he already feels—what I _care_ about is watching you turn into him. Either decide to try and make up with him, or cut him out of your life, but for god’s sake, don’t _become_ him. You’re never going to heal from what he did to you if your end goal is punishment instead of moving on. You’ll just stir yourself into a bigger and bigger angry spiral. And then what? You treat your spouse that way, someday? Your kids? Because they made you mad? Because making you mad means they deserve it? If you justify it once, I’m sorry, but you can find a way to justify it again, at least in the moment.”

Briar’s blood is boiling, but when he tries, he has nothing to say in return. All he can think of is that Dad _deserves_ this—that he’s not justifying anything that doesn’t deserve to be justified—but he thinks about the scared kid who a few short years ago couldn’t stand to be around Dad without taking anxiety medication, about the way he never used to understand how Dad could get riled up when Briar wasn’t even trying to fight back.

Well, Dad’s not fighting back now, and Briar is hot with fury. Is that how Dad used to feel when he would get angry at Briar? He told Briar once that Briar’s lack of response just made Dad angrier because there was no catharsis in Briar lying back and taking it. Is that what he’s doing to Dad now? Beating Dad down while he lies back and takes it?

“I’m eating upstairs,” he says, not particularly caring whether Rosy’s going to be pissed about him getting her sheets dirty. He kicks the chair back, grabs his bowl and spoon in one hand and his water glass in the other, and pounds his feet all the way up the stairs and into his old bedroom.

He doesn’t know how long it takes for Rosy to follow him up there. A while. By the time she knocks on the door, he’s changed into his pajamas and worked his way steadily through a calculus assignment to the point that he almost actually understands it. “Yeah,” he calls.

She steps inside and closes the door. “Mind if I sleep in here with you tonight?”

He doesn’t particularly want her to, because his feelings are still all over the place after their fight, but he figures he kind of owes it to her after screaming at her. Rosy may be wrong—maybe—but she didn’t do anything to warrant being screamed at like that. So he says, “Whatever,” and scribbles out another equation.

Rosy doesn’t try to talk, just hops onto the bed next to him and starts doodling in her sketchpad. The nub of his pencil breaks off. He swears.

“Everything okay?” asks Rosy.

“I just… I’m so mad at you. You and Dad and Mom. I’m _so_ mad at all of you, and all I want to do is call Uncle Haymitch and complain that my family is being insufferable again and let him calm me down, and I _can’t_. I can’t _ever_ call him or talk to him _ever_ again.”

Rosy doesn’t answer, but she sets down her sketchpad.

“I’m sorry I took it out on you. You didn’t earn that.”

“I forgive you,” she says levelly. “Just remember that the next time you want to break down screaming at me or Mom or—or even Dad. And you’d do well to remember that you’re not the only one who lost him—you’re not the only one grieving. All of us are trying to hold it together _for you_ , because we’re worried about you, but that doesn’t mean we’re not in pain, too. Repaying us for letting you make it all about you by lashing out at us? Not classy.”

Briar feels a flush of shame. “You’re right; I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I just… I don’t know what I want,” he admits. “I don’t want to forgive him. I would be more than happy to cut him out of my life—I just spent two years doing it, and I don’t regret them—but what happens next time I can’t avoid him? What happens when it’s _Mom’s_ funeral that I’m in town for and I can’t be around Dad for more than ten minutes without chewing him out and making myself furious?”

Rosy lets out a slow breath. “I can’t spend the rest of my life trying to keep you in line like you’re sixteen again.”

“I know.”

“Maybe… maybe you don’t have to decide right away. What to do about Dad. Maybe there’s a way we can all figure out what we’re going to do together.”

Briar looks sidelong at her. “You’re talking about therapy, aren’t you?”

“It helped Mom. It helped me figure out my own feelings about Dad. I know you said it was starting to help Moxie before, uh—”

“Before she killed herself anyway.”

“Yeah. It might even help you work through your grief about Haymitch—all of us, really, but mostly you. I… I suggested it to Mom and Dad, and they’re both on board. They, um—Dad actually suggested that we all take the train back to District 1 with you next week and find a therapist there, so we can all go in person together and not have to try to figure out multi-way phone calls with Dr. Aurelius on our low-end home phones. I’m sure Ash wouldn’t mind having him and his family watch the girls full-time for a little while. We wouldn’t be crashing at your apartment or anything—we’d all see each other for therapy maybe every day for an hour, and then maybe you and I could get dinners after your classes are over or something.”

Briar considers it. The last thing he wants to do is listen to Dad make excuses and try to talk through his anger _calmly_ without flying off the handle, but, well—maybe that’s the problem. Right? “Maybe. I’ll think about it,” he promises, even though he _really_ doesn’t want to.

“Oh, by the way…” She grabs her sketchpad again and flips through it until she finds the page she wants. It takes a second before it clicks, but Briar recognizes it as the drawing she did of him and Haymitch while they were all sitting in the bathroom together during his detox. “I wanted you to have this,” she says, tearing it off and handing it to him. “And…”

“And what?”

“And Haymitch knew. How special he was to you. I’m sure he knew—you showed him all the time how much you cared. You were always visiting and calling and—you made that huge stink about including him at family night after Moxie, remember?” Briar laughs a little in spite of himself. “He knew. And—and you were special to him, too. And… that doesn’t go away just because he’s dead.”

Briar shrugs one shoulder. There’s a crevasse—an unfillable void—where Haymitch used to be, and he doesn’t foresee that ever getting better, not without being able to see Haymitch ever again. This isn’t Moxie—this is _Haymitch_. Haymitch, who was nothing but a hero to him his entire life.

They go to bed early. It reminds Briar of when he and Rosy used to have “sleepovers” when they were really little—Briar was about six years old, maybe, when Rosy outgrew them—and they’d sleep together in Rosy’s bed and whisper and giggle until Briar fell asleep tucked under Rosy’s arm. “Like old times?” Rosy asks, and she holds out her arm. Feeling a bit stupid, but comforted all the same, Briar lets her wrap it around his waist and nestles his face close to hers.

The next morning, Briar skips breakfast to try and work on Haymitch’s eulogy, but he realizes quickly that he’s got no idea how to even begin the damn thing, let alone encompass everything Haymitch meant to Briar and to the Mellark family, without exposing his dad as a child abuser in front of the entire town. He explains his dilemma when Rosy comes back upstairs.

“That’s fair. That’s totally fair,” she says, frowning. “And I can understand you not wanting to lie. I can ask Mom to do it instead, if you want?”

“That’s probably for the best,” sighs Briar, feeling sick with himself.

“You could still write him a eulogy, though,” Rosy suggests. “One that you don’t read to everyone. We could put it in Mom’s people book.”

“Yeah.”

“Briar, Uncle Haymitch’s funeral is not the time or the place to start a district-wide drama by raising allegations against Dad. You know that, and Uncle Haymitch wouldn’t have wanted it.”

“Yeah, I know. You’re right.”

Haymitch was a _hero_ , and nobody will ever know. All anybody is ever going to remember him as is a drunk. Almost as bad—he’s deliberately protecting Dad’s reputation so that people don’t think any less of him, the way they should.

He spends the next two days slaving over the private eulogy he writes for Haymitch. He writes about the color of his eyes and how it sounded when he laughed— _really_ laughed, not that sarcastic thing he did most of the time—and the way he always showed up to family night with his hands shaking because he’d made himself go so long without a drink. He writes about the perfect way Haymitch listened and the advice he gave and his insistence that Mom and Dad, with all of their flaws, were still good people at heart, no matter what they’d done.

Briar tries to remember Haymitch’s last words to him—not _technically_ his last words, which were something like, “Can you read louder?” but what he said that day about Briar learning to live with what Mom and especially Dad did to him. Something about Briar letting go of his anger and not letting his parents keep hurting him by carrying it around. How did he put it? What were his exact words?

It was practically Haymitch’s dying wish—not that either of them knew it at the time—and Briar can’t even remember it. Some son _he_ was.

Rosy offers to bring up all his meals, so he lets her, mostly because he doesn’t really want to deal with facing Mom and Dad after that last explosion. He’s starting to feel a little ashamed of it, now that he’s getting some separation from what happened, and he wonders if this is a toned-down version of what Dad used to feel after an episode.

Is Briar _really_ turning into his father? He hopes not, but he’s starting to think that Rosy had a point.

Finally, when he finishes writing, he decides that he can’t put it off any longer and heads downstairs. Rosy’s cooking dinner, but he finds his parents together sitting together in the living room, looking—sadder than usual, which is to say, pretty sad.

“Hey,” he says after they’ve both been staring at him for a few seconds.

“Hey,” chorus Mom and Dad, not smiling.

“I, uh—I finished writing what I wanted to say. For Uncle Haymitch. You know, to go in the people book.”

“That’s great,” says Mom quietly. “You know, your father and I could add it to the book for you, if you want. Dad can do a painting, and I can copy your words underneath.”

“Okay,” says Briar. He’s about to go back upstairs, but on a whim says, “Mom? Dad? I… I’m sorry. For screaming. I know better.”

“I—” Mom starts to say, but Briar turns heel and runs back upstairs so that he doesn’t have to hear it.

It’s a beautiful funeral. Far more people turn out than Briar is expecting—maybe a hundred? Mostly people Mom and Dad’s age or older who must remember Haymitch from seeing him on TV every year during the Games.

There’s a hole in the ground next to the closed casket, and encircling it are paintings of Dad’s chronicling Haymitch’s life. One of him holding some girl named Maysilee as she bled out in his lap (“Haymitch asked me to paint it for him, but he never got to see it,” says Dad). One of him looking on as Best Man at Mom and Dad’s wedding. And one of him with his arm slung around Briar—it looks like Dad based this one on Rosy’s drawing.

Mom talks a lot about Haymitch being a mentor—her and Dad’s literal mentor in the Games, but also continuing to guide them and help them grow as people as they grappled with PTSD, got married, had children and grandchildren for Haymitch to mentor, too. Apparently, Dad always refused to go to therapy after the Revolution—he wanted to focus all of his energies on helping Mom feel better and deal with her own trauma, claiming it would be selfish to seek therapy himself when the hijacking had already been mostly reversed and the immediate danger was gone—but Haymitch tried to sneak in as many heart-to-hearts as he could muster up, so that Dad had someone to lean on while Mom was too sucked up inside herself to do it.

She makes a big point of how important Rosy and especially Briar were to Haymitch. Briar just bows his head and hopes nobody tries to get him to talk, after.

After the reading, Briar raises his head and looks at his mother— _really_ looks at her. She’s in her late fifties now, her wrinkles deep and her hair greying, and her eyes are crinkled in that sad way they always are, but it looks like a deeper sad, now, somehow. She’s crying, but she’s not making noise, as Dad and Rosy lower Haymitch into the ground. Briar wonders whether Dad told Mom about the way Briar screamed at him to shut up when he was eighteen, when Dad started crying noisily about what he did to Briar during his childhood.

He looks at her, and then at his father, who’s wiping his forehead with his suit sleeve as he steps back and lets Rosy shovel the first bit of dirt on top of the casket in the ground. He looks at them, and he doesn’t forgive them, but he thinks he might—just might—get a little closer to it.

“I’ll do it,” he tells Rosy an hour later, when the last guests have gone and they’re all walking back to Rosy’s house. “Therapy. But I’m not saying it’s going to make everything okay.”

“I wouldn’t expect any less,” Rosy assures him.

What was that thing Haymitch said to him? The thing he can’t remember about living with it?

He hopes that, somewhere, Haymitch is smiling.


End file.
